


Falling Inn Love

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based on the movie Falling Inn Love, Breakup of family (pre fic), Cas/Balthazar Break Up Shown, Castiel is a deluded city boy...but not for long, DIY, Dean thinks its all hilarious, Deceased Lisa Braeden (pre-fic), Despite these tags this is an incredibly fluffy and low-angst fic, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Smut, Handyman Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Inn Owner Castiel, M/M, Meg is a good friend, Miscommunication, Past Balthazar/Castiel (Supernatural), Previous Arguably Emotionally Abusive Relationship, Romantic Comedy, Sassy Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Build, Slow Romance, So many tropes, Switching, The mildest angst and the big happy ending, Unlucky Castiel, feral pig character, remodeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: Romance and remodeling collide when Castiel, suddenly finding himself single and jobless, accepts a business proposition from his untrustworthy colleague, Crowley.He finds himself the new owner of Bellbird Valley Farm, an entirely decrepit husk of a building that he has big plans for: Castiel is going to open his own self-sustaining eco-inn.There are only a few problems… like the feral pig living on the property, the nosy locals, his total lack of DIY skills, and Dean Winchester—the prickly, sarcastic local handyman that Castiel accidentally assaulted with a dildo the moment he got off the train.An AU based on the movie "Falling Inn Love".
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak
Comments: 679
Kudos: 1250
Collections: SPN Media Big Bang 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection, The Fatback Multiverse Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, folks! 
> 
> I've been looking forward to posting this fic for what feels like 84 years! Based on the (extremely tropey and cheesy) Netflix movie, "Falling Inn Love," it is my contribution to this year's Media Big Bang--a fic challenge for stories based on, inspired by, or crossing over with any media that has inspired the authors. This year what inspired me was rom-com DIY! 
> 
> In addition to my words, this fic has several gorgeous art pieces by the amazing [Foxy!](https://foxymoley.tumblr.com/) I've been lucky enough to work with them before, and all I can do is hope that I get to repeat the experience again someday, because Foxy is a delight--a wonderful human, bursting with talent, and an honor to know. You can see the art masterpost for the fic [here!]()
> 
> Other important thanks: All of my Destiel Trashcan girls, but in particular, EllenOfOz, SOBS, and jscribbles. Some of you helped early on, others held my hand at the end, but without all of you, I'm not sure this fic would be here. <3
> 
> Another very special shout out has to go to castielslostwings! If you don't recognize Fatback, you can find the original piggie over here in [Deserted!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621123) Castielslostwings helped out from the alpha stages of this fic, which is were both Fatbacks (headcanon, same pig, different timeline) were born.
> 
> Now, on to the fic! As stated, this is fic is based on the movie "Falling Inn Love." It isn't an exact copy of the movie, though - if you're familiar with it, I'm sure you'll recognize a lot of scenes, but I adapted other things to fit our boys and left out some things that just weren't needed. Hopefully, you'll like the result!
> 
> One thing to note: The movie is based in New Zealand. For SPN purposes, this fic takes place in Kansas, but obviously Bellbird Valley does not really exist in KS. Therefore please do take all geography with a pinch of salt! There are real places used, but transplanting a town from across the world into the middle of the US is not always easy, lol!
> 
> Now that is out of the way... I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Mal <3

“I believe that Garrison Enterprises is uniquely placed to…to… _damn it_ —” Muttering under his breath, Castiel skimmed through his cue cards until he found the right one. “—advance!” he blurted out. 

‘Advance’. He knew that.

Leaning back in his chair, Castiel let out a groan. He was better than this. He knew his job; he was _really good_ at his job. He just wasn’t feeling it. His proposition was flawless, he’d worked on it for years, but this meeting, or this client, or…something was off lately. He had that itch, the one beneath his skin that his mee-maw had always told him would lead to nothin’ but trouble.

_“You’ve got the rebel’s heart, Castiel, just like your mama.”_

It might have sounded encouraging on a sitcom, or from a loving, supportive clan. But in the Shurley family, what they meant was, _'That's enough_ _ _,_ Castiel. You put your feet back on the ground right this minute, young man. None of those fancy ideas.’ _

With a sigh, Castiel threw his pile of index cards down on top of the huge glass conference table and reached for a donut. They were his absolute favorite, honey-glazed lemon jelly from the artisan donut spot three blocks over. The one perk of living in San Francisco, other than it being pretty far from his loud, overbearing mee-maw and his wilting, obedient father, was that he could find almost any food he wanted at short notice.

Castiel sunk his teeth into a second donut, licking at the jelly oozing down his chin while there was no one around to notice. Everyone who had been supposed to attend this pitch meeting had failed to show up, and Castiel’s boyfriend wasn’t around to make subtle digs about how long he’d have to spend at the gym to work off just one of those gooey, delicious, perfect lumps of dough.

If it came down to a choice between Balthazar and carbs, there was a fair chance that Castiel might choose carbs. Guilty at the thought, Castiel closed the donut box and shoved it as far away from himself as he could. It glided across the table, leaving a slightly greasy, sticky streak on the glass.

Grumbling, Castiel dug around for a Kleenex to wipe it up.

He tapped his fingers.

He shuffled his cards, again.

He gave in and ate two more donuts.

Eventually, Castiel took up spinning in his chair and gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows across the San Francisco skyline, daydreaming about getting out of the city for the weekend. Maybe Balth would let them get a little cabin somewhere? Unlikely, that didn’t sound like the germaphobe Brit’s kind of thing. Even so, Castiel could dream.

One more donut.

The sharp click of the door opening had Castiel swiftly spinning back to the desk, scattering notecards everywhere in his attempt to scramble into a professional-looking position. He dropped his donut on the glass tabletop and was vaguely aware of some honey glaze sliding from the corner of his mouth as Naomi cleared her throat.

“Castiel.”

“Yes, ma’am—apologies. I’m ready for the meeting, I’ve been waiting for months to be able to pitch this to you, as you know... Just give me one minute to clean up the—”

“Don’t worry about it, Castiel. That’s what the janitor is for, and I don’t have time to stay.” She looked at him almost pityingly, her aggressively bleached blonde hair a stark contrast to the sleek black lines of the doorway. “We’ve decided to go with Crowley’s proposition. We authorized him to finalize the property purchases a few days ago.”

“But…” Castiel swallowed hard, finally choking down the last glob of suddenly tasteless donut. “But you haven’t even heard my pitch.”

“Next time,” Naomi said, her voice flat and dull.

“You said that last—”

“I have to get to Zachariah’s office, so you’ll have to excuse me. I’ll expect your monthly reports on my desk by nine a.m. tomorrow, as always, Castiel.”

“I—”

With another click, the door closed. Castiel was left listening to the vicious clacking of Naomi’s startlingly high stilettos as she stalked up the hall to find her next victim.

With a low growl of frustration, Castiel grabbed his briefcase and his notecards, ignoring the strays that had escaped under the table. He made it to the door, where he dumped the handful of cards he had—covered in notes on the pitch he’d spent the last five weeks rehearsing—into the trash can near the entrance. Some of them missed, fluttering down to the sterile, white tile floor.

Castiel thought about bending down and picking them up.

He turned around, took three steps back into the room, and picked up the donuts instead.

***

“Cassie, darling, maybe looking for another job isn’t the best option for you,” Balthazar purred around his alfredo with garlic steak medallions. “I know you feel like you’re struggling, but think about the job market, baby. You just might not be very _marketable,_ right now.”

Castiel tried not to stare too hard at the delicious meat juices pooling on Balthazar’s plate and dragged his eyes back up to the man instead. A little shorter than Castiel, Balthazar was somehow slimmer than him—though Castiel was solid, rather than overweight, yoga being the only thing that kept him sane most days—even though he lived on a diet of everything he forbade Castiel.

“Balth,” Castiel said, frowning slightly. “I’d worked on that proposition for nearly two years, rehearsed my pitch for weeks, and she didn’t even take the time to listen to it, to humor me.”

“She’s a businesswoman, darling, she doesn’t have time to humor you over your little pet project.”

Castiel bit into his Caesar salad (no croutons, dressing on the side) and tried to pretend it tasted like alfredo sauce clinging to fresh tagliatelle.

It didn’t.

The restaurant was a nice one—the ones Balthazar picked always were, he was a bit of a foodie—but it wasn’t quite Castiel’s speed. He was more of a burger and beer kind of guy, but Balthazar thought burgers were invented entirely to keep the population placid and chubby and that beer was for brutes.

“Maybe you just need to accept where you are,” Balthazar was droning on, using the slightly bored tone that he got whenever they talked about anything that wasn’t him.

“Actually,” Castiel said, taking a moment to pick up his cloth napkin and dab his mouth clean, before placing it at the side of his plate. “I have another idea.”

“Oh?” said Balthazar, reaching for his expensive wine. He swished it in a circular motion as if to say, “Go on!”

Castiel pushed down the feeling that Balthazar was indulging him, the look on his face akin to one that a person would give to a child explaining their playtime imaginings. At least Balthazar was listening. It was a start.

“What if,” Castiel began nervously, “I was to look for private funding for the project? Outside of Garrison Enterprises.”

Balthazar blinked, the motion of his wine glass stopping suddenly and causing the wine to _swish_ up one side of the curve, splashing a stream of the ruby red liquid over the edge. “What on Earth do you mean, Cassie?”

“I mean heading up the project myself. Pitching to private investors.”

“On your own?” Balthazar crowed in disbelief, reaching across to grab Castiel’s napkin and beginning to sop up his spilled wine.

“Yes,” Castiel replied, a little defensive. What was that supposed to mean? He’d been perfectly capable of doing things on his own before Balthazar—he still _was_ perfectly capable of it! “You know I used to want to work for myself, back before we met, before I took the job with Garrison.”

“Oh, I know, darling, I know! But I thought that was just a—a silly college kid’s dream! Not in real life!”

Castiel pushed down the instant throb of hurt and anger in his chest, channeling it into a frown. “Why? What’s so wrong with it?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all!” Balthazar forced out between dabs. “I just don’t think it’s the best idea for you, that’s all. You know I’m only thinking of you, baby.”

The pet names were a thing Balthazar had always done, but it had never occurred to Castiel quite how much he hated them until that moment. 

“Why?” he said again. “Why is it not the best idea _for me?_ ”

“Cassie,” Balthazar said, pausing in his napkin-mopping to look pointedly at Castiel across the table. He sighed, and his brows lofted into a resigned, put upon expression. “You know that the reason you got that job with Garrison is because I suggested to my Uncle Zachariah that they hire you,” he murmured, somehow both condescending and sweet. “I just don’t want you to go out there, into the world, and be…be _overlooked._ That would hurt you, sweetheart, and when you’re hurt, I’m hurt.”

Castiel gulped, ignoring the click in his dry throat. Okay, so yes, Balthazar had suggested that they interview him at his Uncle’s firm, but Castiel had gotten through the interview and all the years since, and his promotions and track record had nothing to do with—

Balthazar was still talking, Castiel registered with a jolt.

“You’re comfortable right now, and running your own business like that can be so draining, both emotionally and financially. I’m just not sure if you’re—”

“Well, uh,” Castiel said, his eyes resting briefly on his uneaten salad. “I’ve been saving up for a long time now, and I’d actually been thinking about some ways to cut corners so that I could save even more, if I went down this route.”

“Cassie, rent alone in this city is—”

“I’d thought that maybe we could bring up the idea of moving in together, again,” Castiel half-whispered, nervous. “I could save a lot. We both could, if…”

“Darling, we’ve talked about this!” Balthazar leaned back in his chair, still holding the napkin, and spread his arms like his words were a regret. “I like my space, you know how I am. I have a lot of friends over, and you don’t like my friends—”

“Because your friends are all nubile women and hot men that you don’t even know the names of!” Castiel suddenly snapped.

He had no idea what had come over him, but he couldn’t deny how _good_ and right it felt as he reached across the table, curling his fingers around the stem of Balthazar’s wine glass.

“I am so, so stupid,” Castiel announced suddenly, giving out a little disbelieving laugh. “Three years. Three years of this, and I just…let you.”

Castiel could feel his own jaw slackening in disbelief as he shook his head slowly, just taking in the moment. A moment that, with sudden clarity, he realized should have happened years ago. What had he been _doing_ all this time?

“Cassie,” Balthazar was saying cautiously, his hands coming up defensively, his posture losing some of his surety. “Let’s be reasonable, baby, there’s no need to—"

The red wine splashed forward out of the glass, splattering across Balthazar’s face and finally—finally, after three years—shocking him to silence. Castiel felt like he was having an out of body experience as he threw the glass to the floor, growling viciously, “I am not _anybody’s_ ‘baby’, Balthazar, least of all yours.”

Pushing his chair back, Castiel grabbed his wallet and keys from the top of the tablecloth, spun on his heel, and walked out.

***

The weather in San Francisco was usually California-fine, bright and beautiful almost all year round, but as Castiel got up to head to work the next morning, nature seemed to have decided to mimic his mood. Dark, heavy clouds chased Castiel all the way from his apartment to the metro station. He had an umbrella tucked under his elbow, armed and ready. The day was going to be miserable no matter what, but there was no need to be miserable _and_ wet, Castiel thought.

He gripped his travel mug hard, protecting his precious coffee against the jostling of the sidewalk, running late for his train. Castiel wasn’t a late person, but he’d been tempted to call in sick and wallow in misery, and he’d only managed to snap out of it at the last minute.

No, he told himself. He refused to be that person whose whole life fell apart just because they broke up with their boyfriend. Well, “broke up with” was a kinder description than the previous evening’s disaster deserved. ‘Assaulted him with a seventy-dollar glass of wine and flounced out three years too late’ was a little dramatic-sounding, though. So, Castiel had skipped his run, skipped meditation, and simply grabbed his coffee and a not-too-crinkled white shirt, and thrown himself back out into the world.

He was regretting it already.

The guy he sat next to on the metro kept trying to sell him on a pyramid scheme, while smelling like the liner of an industrial trash can. The woman on his other side screamed blue murder at him for accidentally brushing her with his umbrella, and when he got off at the stop nearest the Garrison Enterprises building, there was one of those annoying yelling preachers making sure that Castiel knew he was going to Hell. Which, by that guy's doctrine, Castiel felt quite sure that yes, he was. 

Grumpy, irritated, and tired from spending far more of his evening thinking about calling Balthazar than he was proud of, Castiel dragged his feet toward the unfriendly-looking chrome entrance of Garrison.

Castiel’s frown deepened further the closer he approached.

Outside the building, there was a crowd of people, all talking loudly and bustling about. Garrison Enterprises occupied a huge, 1980s skyscraper with a tacky reflective overlay around the ground floor and bars on the windows— _so that the employees can’t escape,_ Castiel always thought. It was noisy and confusing and very strange for eight a.m. on a Tuesday. Usually, the building was dead this early, almost as dead as the souls and dreams of the employees within.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asked Joshua, an older guy who’d worked in the same position over in accounts for longer than Castiel had been with the company. He stood right at the edge of the rowdy group, near the sidewalk, worrying the handle of his briefcase between his fingers. 

“They’re gone,” Joshua said, the whites of his eyes panic-filled and bright against his dark skin. “Just closed up! Overnight!”

Blinking incredulously, Castiel felt chill, early morning air filling his mouth as it hung open. “Wait— _what?”_

“IRS Agents came in and slapped Naomi and Zach right down. We can’t even get into the building,” Joshua continued, his smooth voice pitched higher than Castiel usually heard it. He felt for the guy; Castiel knew he had several kids he was putting through college and a wife at home who’d never worked. This could be catastrophic for him.

They parted, and Castiel pushed his way on through the crowd, dazed. He managed to elbow his way up to the door, his knuckles white around his half-empty mug of coffee. Next to the heavy glass entrance stood a stocky man in a black, knee-length coat over a dark suit and shirt, who was thumping his fist furiously against the door.

“Crowley,” Castiel said, stepping up next to him. “Is it true? What happened?”

The furious-looking Scotsman spun on the spot, turning to Castiel with his hands up in the air. “Castiel! Yes, it's bloody real—they were only cooking the books, weren’t they! Weren’t even smart enough to do it well enough not to get caught!”

Castiel thought that Crowley might be somewhat missing the point there, but it didn’t feel like the time to point it out. “So that’s it?” he asked instead. “We’re out of jobs, all of us?”

“Yes!” Crowley spat toward the door, slapping it again. “I just received the titles for thirty properties for the new spa client! What the hell am I supposed to tell them now?”

Wincing, Castiel shrugged. He didn’t much like Crowley, but that did sound awkward. “Maybe they can keep the properties and find a new company to renovate and run them?” he offered weakly. “They might even be able to keep you on the project, that way.”

Crowley wasn’t listening, too busy yelling very British obscenities through the crack in the door.

Slowly, Castiel drew a hand up to run through his hair, before slipping it down to loosen his tie. He suddenly felt like it was choking him. What the hell was he supposed to do now? All these years! All these years, he’d given everything to move on, move up, be better, prove his worth. 

The endless hours of overtime, the declined social invitations, the nights spent alone in his apartment when people eventually stopped asking.

Fuck Garrison. Fuck Garrison, and fuck Naomi, and fuck Zachariah. Castiel didn’t usually cuss much, a holdover of his conservative home, and his f-bombs tended to be very special occasions, even mentally. But right then...fuck everything.

Taking a step away from the door, Castiel heaved in a breath. He had savings, he told himself. He did. Alright, they wouldn’t last long in San Francisco…but he was better off than most of these people were. Looking around, all he could see were shocked, scared faces.

It was only when the dark clouds overhead cracked and charged the air, fat raindrops beginning to fall, that Castiel realized he’d left his umbrella on the train.

Great.

***

“Rocky road,” Castiel mumbled into the phone tearfully. “And that creamy vanilla one I like with the bits in it, you know the one.”

“I’ve got you, Clarence. Don’t you worry about a thing. Just make sure your door is unlocked, and put on some fucking pants, it’s been three days.”

There was a small tap, and his phone screen went blank.

Castiel's best friend Meg was the tough-love variety. Luckily, she was also the delivering-ice cream variety, and right now Castiel's focus was entirely dairy-based.

Rolling off his unmade bed with a long groaning noise, Castiel flopped down onto the floor and pulled open the middle drawer of his dresser. Technically, it was full of yoga pants. Balthazar had always told Castiel he needed to do yoga to keep his ass pert. After staring at the contents of the drawer for a long minute, Castiel kicked it shut. Stupid pants. Who needed pants?

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, brooding, but Meg arrived and cussed at him before throwing a blanket over his bare legs.

“Okay,” she said, handing him a spoon. “Get eating while I unpack, then pull yourself together so I can tackle that ridiculous hair of yours.”

“Why?” Castiel grumbled around a mouthful of rocky road that was already just the right amount of melted.

“Because you need new Grindr pictures, and trust me when I say that this—” She gestured vaguely to the lump of blanket and three-day bed sweat that was Castiel, “—isn’t really working for you.”

“No,” Castiel grumbled, slowly pulling the spoon out of his mouth with a wet _pop_. “I’m just going to be single forever. Dating apps are revolting.”

“Dying alone in your messy apartment and being found weeks later, surrounded by ice cream containers and half-eaten by your cat—now _that’s_ revolting.”

“ _Meg,_ ” Castiel groaned as she dragged him up to standing. “You’re being a bitch.”

He stuck the spoon back in his mouth so that he could reach down and grab a fistful of his t-shirt, taking a cautious sniff. Alright, she had a point. Wallowing in self-pity was a little gross, there were definitely better ways to be both single and unemployed.

“Yes,” Meg answered him tartly. “Now, get in the shower, and tell me where that dumb bug movie is, the one that makes you cry.”

“It’s not a movie, it’s a—”

“An in-depth look at the plight of modern beehives, I know, I know. It sucks, and you are going to owe me so hard, Clarence.”

Castiel showered, more for Meg than himself. He was miserable that he’d lost his job and wasted years on a place that didn’t appreciate him and left him with nothing. And he was also sad and angry that he’d wasted those same years on a boyfriend who didn’t appreciate him, either. Castiel wasn’t perfect, but he did, at least, know he deserved better than that.

But right now, everything stung and he just wanted to crawl into a hole and cry, lonely and defeated.

Luckily, he had Meg. They’d met in college, even dated…for exactly a week, before they’d each come to certain realizations about themselves. Castiel just preferred men most of the time, and Meg just preferred sex. The “feelings” part was baffling to her. Which Castiel respected, but was often amused by, because as a friend she was fierce and loyal and loving. She just didn’t have the drive within her to turn those emotions towards romance. Luckily, she’d had the drive to stick by him all through college, though, and it was her getting a job out here in San Francisco that had brought Castiel this far from his family, who were all still in Illinois.

Yeah, Meg was a good friend. And she didn’t deserve to share a couch with someone who hadn’t washed or brushed their teeth in three days.

By the time Castiel returned to his living room, still feeling wretched but clean, Meg had the tequila poured, the movie started, and actual bowls for the ice cream.

Progress.

“C’mere,” she said, extending one arm and patting the couch next to her in invitation. “I always said that fucking snotty British asshole was bad news.”

Meg was petite, much smaller than Castiel’s nearly six-foot frame, and her big round eyes and baby face were a strange contrast to her snarky personality, badly dyed hair, and ripped denim. But right then, she looked nothing more than welcoming, even while cussing out Castiel’s ex. It was just what best friends did.

“You did,” Castiel admitted. He slid onto the cushions and into the space Meg had offered, pulling up his feet and making a small misery-ball in the middle of the couch. He settled, and then threw back the shot glass that Meg handed over without so much as a grimace.

“He held you back, and treated you like a convenience,” she continued, topping up the glass as soon as Castiel was done.

“Yeah,” Castiel agreed, slow and sad.

“Drink up then, and let's be sad about bees.”

Castiel nodded, throwing back the second shot and holding the glass out for a third even as Meg hit play on the TV.

Two hours later, Castiel was the kind of drunk that should be reserved for…well, situations like this. Meg was asleep, drooling slightly on Castiel’s couch pillow, and Castiel was slumped down, lost in pathetic thoughts as he watched the ceiling fan spin.

With a prissy meow, Castiel’s cat Miggles emerged from beneath the coffee table, stretching their legs out long and clawing sleepily at the carpet. The feline was monstrous, nearly twenty pounds of grey fluff and green eyes. Done with that, they padded over, jumping up onto the couch and making their way toward Castiel.

“Hello, Miggs,” Castiel said, patting his chest to coax her up. The cat sniffed, raised its nose, and pointedly turned its back on Castiel. “Are you mad at me for not leaving the apartment for three days? You had food.”

Miggles didn’t seem to think that was good enough, sitting primly on the arm of the couch to Castiel’s right and beginning to wash their face, aloof.

Castiel was spared from the derision of his feline by his phone bouncing across the coffee table, shuddering its way toward the edge. He knocked it back into the center with his foot, ignoring it. It was already full of three days worth of missed calls, anyway, which were probably all marketing calls. Meg was the only person he had left.

As soon as the vibrating was over, it started again.

Groaning, Castiel reached for the tequila bottle—the glass having been lost somewhere around the time the first hive collapsed in the movie—and took a fortifying gulp before he picked up the unknown number.

“Hello?” he rasped.

“Castiel! I’ve been calling you for two days, you giraffe.”

“Crowley?” Castiel questioned, settling himself back on the couch and rubbing the heel of his hand across his eyes. What had he done to earn all this? He was in hell. And not the calmer outer circles, either—surely, he’d personally betrayed heaven somehow, to deserve this level of hell. His mee-maw had been right about him after all.

“Of course it’s Crowley,” the crisp, smarmy Scot barked down the phone. “Who else would be calling you with a business proposition at this hour?”

“A business proposition? Crowley, I’m not sure I’m really in a good place to—”

“Oh, so you found a job, then?” Crowley said. Castiel could picture his dark smirk against his pale, sunless skin.

“Well, not exactly. I was, uh, considering my options.”

“Considering the bottom of a bottle by the sound of it.”

“That too.”

“Well, I have a fantastic offer for you. I’ve fallen on my feet, of course, as I expected, but I have a few loose ends to tie up, and I couldn’t help but think of poor little you.”

Castiel’s gaze had been resting listlessly on the blank but glowing TV screen, the end credits of his documentary long ago done rolling. But, at Crowley’s pronouncement, he gave out a long groan and lolled his head against the back of the couch. 

“Why me?” he asked the ceiling fan.

“Why you _indeed,_ Castiel!” Crowley crowed temptingly. “You see, I managed to roll right into bed with one of our competitors, and they are going to take the spa project I’d purchased for _pretty much_ face value.”

“Yay for you,” Castiel said humorlessly.

“Thank you. But as I said, loose ends, there’s always bloody loose ends. One of the properties I’ve acquired has been dropped from the ledger as they don’t think it’s quite the _vibe_ they’re going for, with this spa thing.”

“The vibe?”

“It’s too quaint, too country. These are more serious, city-slick kind of investors, you know how it is.”

“Hmm,” Castiel mumbled vaguely, closing his eyes, no idea why this had anything to do with him.

“Of course, I _immediately_ thought of you, Castiel! You and your—what was it? ‘Eco inns’?” Crowley managed to at least mostly keep the disgust out of his voice, so Castiel let his condescending tone slide.

“Yes. My environmentally sustainable rural inn project where guests—”

“Yes, yes, exactly. What an opportunity!”

“I don’t follow.”

“Look, you must have savings. You’ve worn the same dull coat for three years and you bring sandwiches to work. In an old cookie tin, nonetheless.”

“It’s a reusable steel lunch canteen,” Castiel bristled. “And I _like_ my coat.”

“Yay for you,” Crowley said, echoing Castiel’s earlier mockery. “But don’t you want to jump at this fantastic prospect?”

“Jump…at… Look, Crowley,” Castiel said, wincing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have had a lot of tequila, and I don’t like talking to you when I’m sober. What exactly are you trying to swindle me into?”

“I take offense at the suggestion that—”

“Hanging up in three, two—”

“I’ll give it to you for a steal!” Crowley brayed, the desperation beginning to ease into his voice. “It’s perfect for you. You can run your whole project yourself as a private owner, no investors, nothing!”

Drunk or not, Castiel pushed himself upright, sitting up straight on the couch. Next to him, Meg grumbled, kicking him in the thigh as she opened one bleary eye before pulling the couch throw over her head.

“What’s the catch, Crowley?”

“Catch? Castiel, it’s me. Surely you—”

“What’s the _catch_ , Crowley.”

“Really, Castiel, I’m being honest with you. The investor doesn’t want the debt load of taking on the extra building from Garrison, which due to legal wrangling and Naomi’s _bloody_ sneakery, leaves me stuck with it and out of pocket.”

“So, you’re desperate to offload it,” Castiel said skeptically.

“Yes, I’ll admit. But it really is perfect for you.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Bellbird Valley Farm, Kansas,” Crowley began, his voice picking up hope. “The building itself needs a little work, I’ll give you that, but it’s sixteen acres of countryside with all the green stuff your weird little heart can take. It's peaceful, far, far, away from the city, and it could be all yours.”

“MEOW,” Miggles declared, batting at Castiel’s knee in warning.

Castiel ignored the cat, feeling _something_ growing in his chest for the first time in as long as he could remember. 

“Alright,” he said, voice shaky. “How much are we talking?”


	2. Chapter 2

It had cost Castiel just over two-thirds of his savings to purchase the farm. When Crowley had said he would sell it for a steal, he’d meant it. Meg had been mightily pissed when she’d awoken the next morning with a ringing hangover and discovered that Castiel had changed his whole life in a single phone call, all while she’d been sleeping off a tequila and sugar coma. Castiel had explained over breakfast at the twenty-four-hour taco shack, and Meg had told him he was utterly crazy. Well, actually, she’d told him he was nutty as a squirrel turd, but she’d supported him anyway. 

Two weeks later, after a series of appointments with attorneys, selling most of his life on Craigslist, and a heart-stopping bank transfer, Castiel was the proud owner of Bellbird Valley Farm in the apparently “quaint” little town of Bellbird Valley, Kansas.

From his online research, Castiel had learned… Well, nothing really, about Bellbird Valley. It didn’t seem to be the most cosmopolitan of places, very rural and fairly cute from the few pictures he’d found. That was fine by Castiel, though. He’d always loved the countryside. He liked to go away for the weekend and visit pretty guesthouses and shop in tiny little boutiques, or rough it for a night or two at a camping resort and really relax. Get a hot stone massage, something like that.

Bellbird Valley would be an amazing place for a fresh start, he just knew it.

“Next stop, Bellbird Valley Station,” the speaker over Castiel’s head crackled.

Grabbing his suitcase handle, Castiel rose up from his seat, slipped his backpack on, and tucked his yoga mat roll under his arm. He decided to head through the empty train to the door and keep an eye out for the station. Castiel hadn’t needed a car when he lived in San Francisco—he’d lived in the middle of the city and a car was more hassle than it was really worth. So, after flying into Kansas City International, he’d had to bear a two-hour train ride to the middle of nowhere.

At least it was a pretty kind of nowhere, he decided.

Everything was very…flat. Like, really, really flat. Fields of things Castiel couldn’t identify—Was that corn? Or wheat?—stretched out as far as the eye could see, dotted by rickety, rusted windmills and meandering fences that were clearly erected long before land planning was a thing. There was the occasional barn, and every now and again a field of horses or cows. But, in general, Castiel was just surprised that he didn’t see any tumbleweeds rolling past—

Oh, wait. There went one.

But, barren though it was, this part of Kansas was bleakly beautiful, Castiel decided. He could handle this, though he was secretly hoping there was a waste-free cafe somewhere behind one of the falling barns.

“Approaching Bellbird Valley Station.”

Pushing his suitcase along with his foot, Castiel peered through the glass window of the train door. Where was the station? All he could see were more fields.

The train drew to a shuddering halt and the doors creaked open.

Concerned, Castiel poked his head out of the door, looking up and down the platform. Well, “platform” was generous. The station was a small stage of concrete slabs for the train to pull up against. Weeds and knee-high grass grew between most of them, and a sad little vine trailed up the wooden support that held the corrugated iron sheets which formed the station’s “roof”. It was little more than a rain shelter with a train track running next to it. From the cracked plastic side of the shelter, a sign poked out across the platform: “Welcome to Bellbird Valley”.

It wasn’t very…welcoming.

Even so, with no other choice, Castiel lifted his suitcase across the gap and stepped down. He’d spent so long gawking at the station that the train was already beginning to shudder behind him as he slid his backpack from his shoulder, balancing it on top of his suitcase. He heard the train doors closing with a soft _hiss_ behind him.

There was a tug on his yoga mat, under his arm.

Too late, with dawning horror, Castiel realized that he was standing far too close to the train, and his foam mat was wedged in the closing doors.

“Damn it!”

Spinning quickly, Castiel yanked and pulled, jogging up the pathetic excuse for a platform to try and dislodge his eighty-dollar, reversible, Lululemon mat from between the surprisingly determined doors. As the train picked up speed, Castiel was forced to let go. He could only watch as the mat finally succumbed to the pressure of the closing doors. It _pinged_ back into the train, like a gleeful, runaway child who’d said that there was no way he was staying here, Dad, he was going back to the city with his friends.

_Really?_

Balthazar had given Castiel that mat for his birthday. He’d have to stop somewhere in town and buy a new one, Castiel decided. He’d lost his job, he’d lost his boyfriend. He refused to lose muscle tone, too. He’d spent hours every weekend sweating his life away at Bikram yoga classes to earn this ass, damnit.

Castiel allowed himself one big, deep sigh of frustration before moving back down the desolate platform and back to his suitcase and backpack. Now that the train had screeched its way on southwards and away, Castiel could see that there was a road on the opposite side of the tracks which led downhill and off between the fields. He squinted back and forth, but…that was it. A single road. No bus stop, no subway, not a building in sight. How was he even supposed to get over there?

Was expected to just walk across the train tracks? It seemed so.

He wasn’t exactly dressed for walking; packing his existence up into one large suitcase left him wearing his best suit, dress shoes, and his trench coat, and while Kansas weather had nothing on California, it was an exceptionally warm late-spring day. Great.

Castiel forced a smile onto his face. This was fine. He was fine.

He owned a farm. One that he was going to turn into an environmentally friendly eco-inn, luxurious but simple. He’d host conferences. He’d write a blog. Who cared about San Francisco, or commitment-phobe boyfriends, or yoga mats? His inn would be _carbon neutral._

And then, when he’d perfected it, made it a shining example of eco-renovation, he’d sell it. Find another place or two that would work. Start an empire.

That’d show Balthazar. That’d show ‘em all.

Reinvigorated, Castiel fought with the plasticky handle of his cheap suitcase—purchased more for couples’ weekends than hauling his favorite books, bathroom items, and all of his clothes—and picked his way very carefully across the train tracks. He moved as fast as he could, just in case, though he had a strange feeling that there wouldn’t be any more trains coming for quite some time.

Once he’d safely dragged his somewhat travel-battered suitcase onto the road, Castiel stopped to prop his backpack up on top of it, glad to have the weight of his collection of 90s hip-hop CDs and his two other pairs of shoes off his back again. Digging around in the pockets of his sweltering trench coat, Castiel dug out his phone.

Fine. If there was no real station and barely a road, fine. He would Uber to the farm.

Squinting down at the screen of his shiny iPhone 11—company issued by Garrison, but like hell were they getting it back—Castiel realized with a sinking feeling that he had zero cell phone coverage.

Of course he damn didn’t.

Abandoning his suitcase for a moment, Castiel wandered a few steps to the left, holding his phone in the air like there was even a chance this forsaken, derelict place would let him have a single bar.

For a split second he thought he saw the _tiniest_ sliver of data crop up, and he was so distracted that he almost missed the low rumbling of an engine down the hill. It was a throaty purr, a rich growling sound that denoted love, and maintenance, and the good kind of age in a vehicle.

Just in time, Castiel looked up, spotting a beautiful, gleaming black muscle car heading up the hill.

Oh…no, no—not in time at all.

“FUCK!” Castiel yelled, his phone dropping from his hand and bouncing along the gray, gravelly tarmac as he dashed into action.

His suitcase and backpack, both weighty and desperate for freedom, were rumbling down the hill toward the car on little plastic wheels.

Oh, the wheels tried. They rattled and bounced and picked up a surprising amount of speed on their way downhill.

Castiel ran, his dress shoes cutting painfully into his feet as he waved his arms at the car, yelling incoherent words and flailing after his rogue suitcase. The car tried to stop, began to swerve—

All to no avail. With a resounding _smash_ against the classic car’s front bumper, the shitty suitcase sprang open, spraying Castiel’s life across the country road.

By the time Castiel reached the car—a Chevrolet Impala, on closer inspection—the driver had burst out from behind the wheel, leaving the door wide and creaking.

“What the hell, man!?”

Castiel grimaced. “I’m sorry—so sorry, I only left the case for a second,” he explained hastily, dropping to his knees and dragging the scratched, cracked suitcase remains toward himself on the tarmac, scrambling haphazardly to shove whatever was close back inside.

For a moment there was only silence, but then the deep, warm voice above Castiel spoke again. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel snapped, already humiliated enough. Even his _underwear_ was flapping in the breeze, for crying out loud—shit, was that his Astroglide under that bush? He’d buy more, he wasn’t going to draw attention to that.

 _Only bush that lube has ever been near,_ the back of Castiel’s mind provided.

“Alright, alright,” the amiable voice above responded. “I was just asking. I would’ve thought that a flying suitcase depositing your unmentionables across the highway would have indicated a bad day, but what do I know, city slicker?”

Castiel drew his eyebrows together in annoyance, turning to take in the sight of the man whose car he’d assaulted. He gulped. Oh…damn.

A pair of dirty work boots like Castiel had only ever seen in porn led up to a pair of beaten wrangler jeans, which showed off two adorably bowed legs. Above that, an army green t-shirt smudged with paint and salted sweat stains bore a logo that read _Singer’s_ in simple, printed letters. Castiel was almost distracted by the man’s fantastic biceps, but then his eyes reached his face—hair the color of damp, Labor Day sand, a teasing smirk, and eyes like the olives from a really good martini.

Castiel wanted to curl up on the ground and die.

Well, he was already on the ground, scrambling in the dirt, so at least he was halfway there.

“Sorry,” Castiel managed to squeak out. “Wait—did you call this a _highway?”_

“Yeah,” the stranger rumbled, his low, sexy voice (not as low as Castiel’s own, maybe, but pretty damn effective at the number it was currently doing on Cas). “That’s what us locals call it, anyway. Not strictly a highway by DMV standards, for sure, but one of the biggest roads Bellbird Valley has.”

“You’re kidding.”

“First time around here, city boy?”

“You’re not kidding.”

“Not even a little bit.” The man crouched down, resting one hand on his knee as he reached under his car, grabbing one of Castiel’s poor, scratched CD cases from under his tire. “The Fugees?”

Castiel snatched it, glaring. He'd held on to his collection since high school, who cared what this asshole thought? “Thank you.”

Either sensing Castiel’s embarrassment and trying to save him from it, or just enjoying it, the bowlegged man stood back up and stepped back, holding his hands up defensively as he retreated to stand beside his intimidating car.

Squashing down the top of his suitcase, Castiel realized that unfolded and thrown in, his items were taking up much more space they had neatly rolled and carefully squeezed in so that he could bring every last possible thing. Realizing that his dignity was long gone anyway, he gave up and sat on it. “Could you zip this?”

Gorgeous, sarcastic Chevy-driver man gave a little snort, but stepped over to help. “Sure.”

After a moment’s awkward shuffling, the suitcase stayed shut. 

Once the guy stepped back again, Castiel kneeled back down onto the tarmac and began to claw the last of his belongings toward himself, crawling across to his backpack and beginning to shove them haphazardly inside, one by one. His other tie. His aluminum-free deodorant. Balled up socks. A pair of pajama pants with a hole in the crotch.

“Thank you,” Castiel said after a moment, knowing that he was a little red but hardly able to change it. He kept his eyes down, stuffing underwear into his backpack. “Is your car okay? I’ll pay for any damages.”

“Well,” the man said, “this did leave a lasting impression on my windshield.”

There was a strange _booooing-yoooinnnnngg_ noise from above.

Oh. Oh, good God. _Shoot me_ , Castiel internally begged. Maybe this guy would turn out to be the kind of country guy who kept a shotgun in his backseat, and he could just put Castiel out of his misery right there and then.

There, on the windshield of the sleek, clearly beloved Chevrolet Impala, was Castiel’s favorite dildo.

Well, “favorite”… He’d only brought one with him. And it had managed to fly through the air and end up stuck proudly above the left windshield wiper by its little suction cup. Rubbery, bouncy, and veined, it waved quietly in the breeze, a pink flag of surrender wielded by Castiel’s last shred of self-respect.

The driver reached forward again, smirking, about to poke it once more with another of Castiel’s CDs.

_Booooing-yoing-yoing-yoooinnnnngg!_

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Castiel snapped, mortified. “Give me that!”

“I’m not touching it!”

“It’s CLEAN!” Castiel growled, growing more annoyed by the second.

“Oh, unused, is it?” the snarky man said, stepping back to let Castiel closer to the car.

Castiel reached over, wrapping his hand around the chubby nine-incher and tugging. “I’m single, not _dead_ ,” he grumbled.

Laughing openly, the guy watched as Castiel shoved the toy in the side pocket of his backpack. Who even cared if it stuck out a bit? The only other person in sight had already had an eyeful. Hell, he might as well fetch the lube from the shrubbery now, too.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” the guy asked, watching as Castiel shoved the purple tube into the pocket next to its usual accomplice.

“I can get an Uber,” Castiel said as politely as he could. He didn’t want to share a car with this annoyingly beautiful, but kind of _mean,_ guy. He could look after himself.

“Not out here you can’t.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on. You saw the train station, and we call this country road a highway. You think we’ve got Uber out here?”

That was…an unfortunate point, Castiel had to concede. And where was his phone, anyway? He looked around, trying to work out if he’d accidentally packed it, or—

“Looking for that?” Bowlegs gestured twenty-feet up the hill to where Castiel’s iPhone lay face-down on the road.

Great. Just great. A quick inspection revealed an entirely shattered screen, and Castiel was fairly confident that Garrison Enterprises was no longer paying for his Apple Care, if they ever truly had been.

“Come on,” said the guy. “Tell me where you’re headed.”

Reluctantly, Castiel gave in. “I’m looking for Bellbird Valley. I got off the train but…”

“Ahh, yeah. The station isn’t used much, bit of a relic really. The town itself is a couple miles that-a-way,” the guy said hopefully, pointing over the fields down the slope.

The guy walked around his pristine car (eyeing it as he went, clearly checking for scratches) and opened the passenger-side door. He held it wide, sweeping his arm dramatically, and pointedly waiting.

Castiel stood for a minute longer, wishing he could think of any way out of this scenario that didn’t involve being trapped in a moving vehicle with a total stranger who knew exactly what Castiel liked to take up his—

“Ahem,” Dean said deliberately, clearing his throat. “I’ve got somewhere to be, City.”

“Alright, alright.” Castiel gave in, lugging his dusty, straining luggage to the back of the car.

***

The bowlegged man (who Castiel didn’t get the name of, because he'd have had to shout over the non-stop AC/DC that blared through the car the moment the engine restarted) dropped Castiel off outside the Bellbird Valley Post Office. He helped him get his suitcase out of the Impala’s wide trunk, and even held up Castiel’s backpack for him to stick his arms through. Castiel was almost ready to apologize again when the guy opened his mouth.

“If you’re staying more than a day or two, might want to get yourself some more comfortable clothes,” he pointed out.

“This—this _is_ comfortable,” Castiel lied, mildly offended. He was a little overdressed for the country maybe, but this was his favorite suit!

The guy shrugged. “Sure, whatever you say. But most folks in these parts only see suits for funerals, ‘cept maybe my brother, but he’s a lawyer. Not sure you’ll find a lot of places to wear that out to, here in the Valley.”

“Well,” Castiel said curtly, “I think you’ll find that’s my business, not yours.”

With another smirk, the man ducked back behind the wheel, shaking his head. “Forget I mentioned it then,” he offered amiably. “Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way.”

With that, the Impala roared off beautifully up the street Castiel had requested he be left on.

“Thank you,” Castiel mumbled sulkily to himself under his breath.

Main Street in Bellbird Valley turned out to be adorable, like something from a brochure about small-town American values. Looking around, Castiel felt the disasters of the last hour slipping away from him. _This,_ this was the kind of thing he’d come here for. It was charming. A neat row of multicolored buildings lined each side of the street. Alright, there weren’t a lot of stores, but Bellbird seemed to have everything covered: a café, a post office, a hardware store, and a tiny garden center with a florist inside. There was even a tiny independent grocery store-slash-gas station at one end, which was fairly rare in modern America, Castiel was pretty certain. There were flowerbeds full of May blooms in the street, and all of the streetlights looked like they _worked._

This was no inner-city San Fran. Castiel’s heart lifted.

A quick stop into the Post Office earned Castiel the keys he’d been told they were holding for him. Tucking them into his pocket, Castiel wrangled his suitcase back out onto Main Street. He’d walked several storefronts down before he realized that he’d forgotten to ask for directions. With his phone screen out of commission, asking Siri to give him a map wasn’t really going to help much.

Castiel was nothing if not stubborn, though.

He stepped inside the pale blue _Roadhouse Café_ which was sandwiched between a second-hand clothing store and a hardware store that looked like it belonged in the 1950s. (Castiel had a feeling they wouldn’t have the luxury, eco-friendly fittings he was envisioning. In fact, he’d probably be lucky if they had paint without lead in it.)

A chirpy little bell tinkled above the café door as he stepped inside. It was busier than he thought—there were at least a dozen small tables within, three-quarters of them full. People of all ages chatted and laughed, devouring sandwiches, soups, and delicious-looking cakes. The walls were covered with framed vinyls and movie posters, and the narrow room led past a register set up where two young women worked, out to some kind of courtyard beyond. Castiel thought he could see a sliver of more tables, low bushes, and bright sunlight through the archway, but that was about it.

The best thing, though, was that the entire place smelled of deliciously fresh-dripped coffee. Castiel couldn't help a relieved sigh. He functioned entirely on coffee in the mornings, but he usually tried to avoid it in the afternoons so that he'd sleep well. However, given the day he'd had...

Castiel walked up to the two women. They both appeared to be in their early-to-mid twenties, one a bluster of blonde hair and black eyeliner, a contrast to the soft, comfy hoodie and loose flowing waves of the other. He smiled politely, hoping just to get some quick directions, and maybe a ristretto—but he had no such luck; the blonde pounced.

“Oh, fresh meat!”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“You’ve got the dazed look of someone who just came in from out of town, and given that getup”—she jerked a poorly manicured thumb at him—“I’d say you’ve come a pretty long way. You look like a bit of a city-boy.”

Castiel sighed. “Yes. I’ve already been told.”

The blonde lifted an eyebrow questioningly, leaning forward on the counter, all elbows. “So, what’s your story?”

“I—uh, I just needed directions, actually. To Bellbird Valley Farm? I’m the new owner.”

Behind the blonde, the darker-haired girl dropped the plate she'd been holding. The smash resounded through the room, but she didn't even look at it.

A strange hush settled around the café, and Castiel suddenly became _very_ aware of everyone looking at him. The two women exchanged a look and tiny smiles curved their lips. Blonde began to clean up the broken plate.

“Well, it’s wonderful to have you joining our little town,” the softer one said then, reaching across the counter to offer a tanned, warm hand. “I’m Kaia. This is Claire, my fiancée. Anything you need, you just let us know. Claire bites, but she means well, I promise.”

“Castiel,” he said, noting the slim woman’s surprisingly firm grip. “You’re the owners of the café?”

The blonde, Claire, gave a dry grin. “That’s Ellen, technically, but she’s got her fingers in so many pies she’s rarely here. Kaia cooks. I, believe it or not, deal with the customers. How about a coffee before you get on your way to Bellbird? It’s not that far, but by the looks of you, you need some caffeine. On the house today.”

Castiel blinked. “Oh—uh, that’s very kind of you. Thank you, yes.”

“How’d you take it?”

“A double ristretto or even a coconut milk latte would be fine.”

Claire and Kaia both stared at him, blinking slowly. Turning to the side, Claire reached out and grabbed a chunky jug of very dark, steaming drip coffee off a metal warming plate behind the counter. She placed it down on the counter between herself and Castiel with a _thunk._

“It comes like this, capiche? You want milk or sugar?”

“Just a little milk, please,” Castiel muttered.

Claire turned away and began pouring his coffee into a Styrofoam cup. Castiel couldn’t help but eye it with a grimace; how long was it polite to have lived here before you started fussing at local businesses to change their practices for greener ones, he wondered? Averting his eyes, Castiel’s gaze fell on a plate of lumpy, misshapen, very clearly homemade oatmeal cookies next to the register. “Test Recipe,” a note read. “Please take one!”

Shrugging, Castiel reached out to do exactly that, only to find Kaia’s hand stretching out to cover his with a wide-eyed grimace. “Better not,” she mouthed softly. “Claire made them.”

“Here’s your coffee!” Claire announced, spinning around to see Castiel’s fingers still on the edge of the plate. “Oh! Were you going to try one of my new cookies? Kaia’s the cook around here, she makes the best burgers in town, but I like to try sometimes.”

Castiel felt trapped between Kaia’s warning and Claire’s hopeful eyes, so he smiled thinly and picked up a cookie. “Sure,” he said, trying to sound more positive about it than he now felt. It wouldn’t do to offend the locals on his first day.

Claire watched hopefully as he took a bite.

“Oh,” said Castiel, around his mouthful of rubbery cement. “It’s lovely. Is that, uh…cinnamon?”

“Cumin and coriander!” Claire announced proudly. “I like to try new flavor combinations.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, fighting hard to swallow against his body’s every instinct. “I see.”

Kaia merely grimaced an apology from behind Claire’s shoulder. Beside Castiel, an old man elbowed into his space with a wink, grabbing a cookie from the plate and saying to Claire, “I’ll take one for the road, Claire-bear. You tell your daddy I’ll see him at church.”

“Sure thing, J.R,” Claire said with a warm smile.

It seemed the locals had learned to take the cookies and test them out of sight. Castiel made a note for the future.

“Right, well,” Castiel said, rearranging his features in as close to a smile as he could manage with coriander between his teeth. “I better get going. I’m eager to see the farm.”

“Oh, you, uh…you haven't seen it yet?” Kaia asked, a little too carefully.

“No, I actually bought it sight-unseen,” Castiel said, his eyes narrowing automatically.

“That explains it.” Claire snorted, before being cut off by her fiancée’s elbow.

“It’s down the street here,” Kaia talked over her, gesturing to the left. “Keep walking until the buildings stop, then take two lefts and a right. It’s a mile or so.”

Castiel nodded. Walking a mile was no problem, he used to run three times that every morning. “Thank you, both of you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again,” he said politely as he turned, beginning to wrangle his suitcase back out between the tables.

“Good luck!” Kaia called.

“You’re gonna need it!” Claire tacked on, before _oof-_ ing as another elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

***

The café owner’s estimation of a mile may have been slightly on the short side, but at least it was a very pretty walk, Castiel told himself. Once the pastel wooden buildings of the small town came to an abrupt end, he was met with several large fields of unkempt grass and wildflowers, before the road thinned out into something that Castiel could only describe as a _lane._ The pavement was long gone, and nature had taken back whatever parts of the road it pleased. The air was fresh, birds sang, and blooming flowers decorated the edges of fields that looked to have once been farmed, but were now a long-forgotten patchwork of mud, grass, and weeds.

It wasn’t quite like the carefully sanitized version of the country that had surrounded the cabins Castiel had stayed in on long weekends, but it was, in its own way, pretty.

By the time Castiel had turned the last corner as per Kaia’s instructions, he was getting tired. It turned out that a mile on a treadmill or city streets was significantly different to a mile of rutted tarmac while dragging a battered, massive suitcase along behind you.

 _At least it’s a workout_ , Castiel told himself, cheerfully determined. _All the better, as I don’t have a yoga mat anymore._ He’d have to find a spot with forgiving floor to work on, he decided, somewhere in the farmhouse.

There were trees running along both sides of the road by then, dark green and lush and obscuring the views of the fields beyond. So, Castiel didn’t see the light blue, bevel-edged wooden sign until he was right on top of it.

“Bellbird Valley Farm,” it read, in pretty, curly lettering. There was a tiny picture of a bluebird painted alongside the words. It was…vintage-looking, Castiel thought. Cute. Needed a lick of paint, and the flakes rubbed off of it, and maybe the chain needed untangling on the one side so that it hung evenly from the post that extended out over the road a foot or so…but nothing he couldn’t handle.

Entering the gap between the trees, entirely devoid of a gate, that seemed to be the farm driveway, Castiel held on to his expectations tight, keeping his spirits high.

It didn’t need to be perfect—far from it. He was going to renovate so much of it anyway to turn it into a thriving eco-inn, it didn’t matter if it needed some paint or if it hadn’t been dusted in—

“Oh, holy dumpster,” Castiel let out in a breath.

Rounding the turn in the driveway, the farm filled his view.

On shaky legs, he approached until he stood before the porch. His suitcase let out a _thump_ as it hit the ground and popped slightly open, though Castiel couldn’t even remember letting go of it.

Bellbird Valley Farm was a wreck. Derelict. Practically a ruin; a shell of a pretty, colonial wooden farmhouse that was now reduced to _remains._ It was three stories tall, a huge wooden home that had once been a soft cream color with blue shutters and blue accents on the wrap-around, screened porch. But now...now it was a horror movie set. Partly-opened windows, half of them smashed, revealed stained, drooping curtains within. There were so many leaves piled up on the roof that Castiel couldn’t tell what color it was beneath them. The door was open a few inches, peeling blue wood with an exceedingly dead wreath decorating its middle. The porch balustrades were rotten, some of them broken, and the footboards didn’t look any better.

Even the yard, mostly knee-high grass, was a horror. Was that a _bathtub?_

Castiel’s stomach had sunk swiftly downwards and was flopping weakly around his knees like a landed fish. Oh god.

He moved forward, placing a foot on the first step up to the porch—only to go straight through it, of course. Cursing, arms flailing as he righted himself, Castiel quickly hurried up to the next step and out of the splintery jaws of death.

“Crowley,” Castiel hissed beneath his breath as he very cautiously pushed at the flaky front door, “I am going to _kill_ you.”

The door swung open…and then bounced back and kept going, swinging straight off its hinges and toppling onto the porch, hitting an old rocking chair with a resounding _smash._

Castiel stopped to huff, covering his face with his hands. The brochures that Crowley had shown him looked nothing like this. Well, it clearly _was_ this. Fifty-years-ago this. 

Holy shit.

“Never assume anything on the internet looks like its profile picture,” Castiel grumbled beneath his breath.

Alright, alright. Steeling himself, Castiel took a step inside the building. It hadn’t been decreed for demolition, so it couldn’t be that bad, right? He liked a good DIY project. Last year, he and Meg had put together an entire Ikea television stand in her apartment, with only minor injuries.

He had this.

Tiptoeing onward through the hallway past piles of blown-in leaves, Castiel noted that the farm must have been rather nice, once. There were paintings on the walls, thick with dust, that showed pretty countryside scenes from various places around Kansas. A thickly gold-rimmed mirror hung heavily next to a long coat rack, and the wallpaper, damp as it was in places, looked like it might be original from way-back-when. The floor, beneath the mud and animal-tracks—oh sweet Jesus, _animal tracks_ —was a dark, wide-planked hardwood.

Good bones. Dusty, bare bones, maybe… but bones Castiel could work with, perhaps. It was a skeleton of a house, but maybe Castiel could flesh it back out into something living and breathing and beautiful, rather than resigning it to the closet as a Halloween nightmare.

Castiel carefully made his way onward, testing every step and door like it was an accident waiting to happen. Which some of them certainly were. This place may require a little more than his Ikea skills, he was realizing.

The house was full of creaks and squeaks, wood grinding against wood, shutters groaning in the light breeze outside, and his own echoing footsteps. But there was something _else_ , Castiel realized. A sharper, more determined _thumping_ noise that seemed to be coming from one of the many bedrooms upstairs. He edged closer, holding his breath.

 _Please don’t be a haunted farm, please don’t be a haunted farm_ , he begged. He wasn’t sure he even believed in ghosts, but in that moment, he was convinced. If one came at him, he’d punch it in the face.

Wrapping his fingers around the brass handle of the door, Castiel carefully peered inside the bedroom in question. There was an old brass headboard leaning against the wall, and piles of…well, Castiel didn’t want to think about exactly what that brown stuff was…here and there across the mucky floor. A moment passed and then…

_THUMP!_

There it was. The door of the walk-in closet, on the other side of the empty room, was shut but rattling.

_BANG!_

Heart in his mouth, Castiel edged closer.

 _If this is where I die,_ he thought, _it’ll serve Balthazar and Naomi right. This is all on them._

With great trepidation, Castiel stretched out, reaching for the broken handle of the closet while staying as far back from it as possible. The closet was far too still as he turned the knob and inched the door open.

“OINK!”

“AHHHHHH!”

Screaming frantically, Castiel fell backward, only to have a _pig_ —a huge, wild, undoubtedly-feral pig—dart straight out of the closet and clamber right over the top of him in its haste to get out of the room.

Wide-eyed, Castiel lay on his back on the dirty floor, thick with dust (and no doubt, now, pig excrement) and panted at the ceiling, dazed. Maybe he cried a little bit while he was down there; no one had to know.

Eventually, rolling onto the knees of his ruined suit—dry cleaning was never going to fix the dirt and tears of both crawling on the road to gather up his belongings earlier _and_ the dirt of a pig assault—Castiel pushed himself back up to standing.

He would _not_ be bested by a house. Not even by a possibly-haunted, filthy, decrepit farmhouse with a wild pig as a tenant.

Maybe Castiel had been through a rough few years. Maybe he’d lost himself a little. But there was no way on this Earth that he was going to be defeated by a jumped-up, overgrown wooden shack.

It was Castiel’s way or the highway, now.

Back downstairs, Castiel began to make his way slowly through each of the rooms, really looking around. The kitchen, he decided, needed a lot of TLC, but it was certainly salvageable. It had some gorgeous original features, including an honest-to-goodness cast iron heater that worked as a stove and, Castiel suspected, to heat the downstairs of the house. There was also a deep butler sink with a tall, curved brass tap that would look great polished up, he decided. The living room was bleaker; the fireplace had a birds nest in it, and the corners contained a disturbing number of long-deceased field mice, who obviously used the farm as a shelter from the fields beyond over the winter. There was a couch, mustard yellow and very seventies-looking, that was wrapped in plastic against one wall, and that was about it. Well, other than the painting.

Above the fireplace, there hung a truly impressive portrait. At least five-feet tall and three wide, the painting was gilt-framed and heavy looking. An elderly woman, white-haired and primly dressed, lorded herself over the entire room—or indeed, over the whole house, it felt like. The painting was one of those whose eyes followed you as you moved, and Castiel would admit to being the slightest bit creeped out by it at first. But then, the more he looked at it, he changed his mind. The woman’s small, rouged lips curled up just a fraction, and a twinkle in her blue eyes that the artist had managed to catch magnificently gave her a warm, overall mischievous look.

Castiel liked her, he decided.

“Well,” he said, crossing his arms as he looked up at her, “I suppose this was probably your house once. So, if you wish to haunt it, I understand. But you stick to your side, and I’ll stick to mine.”

There was, of course, no answer. Castiel shook his head to himself in mild amusement, before letting out a long breath. He should probably start to make a few lists, he decided.

He was almost scared out of his skin by the knock on the front door. Or, technically, the knock on the frame around what was left of the front door.

“Hello?” an oddly familiar voice called.

Calming himself with his hand on his chest, Castiel stuck his head out into the hallway. There, framed in waning daylight in the doorway stood the bowlegged man from earlier. Of course, who else would it be except the person whose vehicle he’d accidentally vandalized with a sex toy?

“What are you doing here?” Castiel blurted.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the green-eyed man said, sounding mildly concerned.

“No, just a pig,” Castiel grumbled.

“Ahh, that’s Fatback,” the man said, as if that explained everything. “Every now and again one of the locals tries to take him in, but he ain’t havin’ it.”

“I see,” Castiel said, not seeing at all. “I was just glad it was a pig and not the ghost of the intimidating old lady.”

“Ahh, Mabel.” There was something fond to the guy's voice. “She was the last owner, right up until about ten years ago. Died of a broken heart after—well... Wouldn’t worry about her too much, if I were you. She was a sweetheart.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that, so he let out a small hum. Moving out into the hallway, Castiel folded his arms awkwardly across his filthy, dust and pig-stained shirt. “Not to be rude, but what are you doing here?”

The guy raised an eyebrow, as if to say that Castiel hadn’t had much of an issue being rude before, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he shrugged. “I realized that if you were new in town, you might not know where to get your phone screen fixed, so I came to suggest a place.”

“And you knew where I’d be, because…”

“Oh, easy. Claire told Ellen, and she told Jo, and Jo told Bobby, and I stopped by Bobby’s on the way to pick up Charlie for the Cuervas job.”

Castiel blinked. “Right. Sure.”

“So,” the man forged on, unaware of Castiel’s floundering, it seemed, “Ash is who you’re gonna need. He knows his stuff. He lives in an RV on the other side of the field behind the Roadhouse Café, I know you know where that is. Don’t mind how trashed the place looks, I promise you he’s sober enough to get it done.”

“Oh,” Castiel said. “That sounds…I mean, uh, thank you.”

“No problem.” The guy pulled his head back, looking up and down the porch, before settling his eyes on the pathetic blue front door that lay on the floor. “Did you need some help with that? Or do you not believe in privacy? Because believe me, around here if you haven’t got your front door closed people are just gonna walk in.”

“It—uh—fell,” Castiel said, dumbly.

“Ahh, yeah," the guy said, nodding. “Well, Mabel had a ton of tools in the barn at the back. I’ve got to go and meet my brother at Ellen’s for dinner, but you call me if you need any help, okay?”

Already striding off down the path, all wranglers and paint splatters and fantastic shoulders, the man slipped straight back into the shiny black Impala, which was parked right in front of the house, and slammed the door even as Castiel shouted behind him, “Wait! How am I supposed to call you? I don’t even know your name!”

The muscle car rumbled off down the driveway, taking nameless dildo man with it, and Castiel gave out a long sigh.

He’d thought that he’d be here for a few weeks, a month or so, to plan for upgrades to the farm and do some redecorating, but that was looking increasingly unlikely. For today, though, Castiel decided, he’d settle for getting somewhere clean enough to unpack his—

“HEY!” Castiel yelled, looking over to see the pig rooting through his open suitcase on the porch.

“Oink,” the pig grumbled, giving him a hefty stink-eye and carrying right on.


	3. Chapter 3

A streak of sunlight worked its way through the single pane of the bedroom window that Castiel had wiped clean before he’d gone to sleep. It had been late, and he’d spent so much of the evening scrubbing his chosen bedroom into submission that by the time it came to the outside of the windows, he’d had not a single shit left to give. So, he’d merely smudged it clean with his damp rag for a little light in the a.m. and tucked himself into bed. He’d slept fully clothed—the mattress he’d found had been wrapped in plastic, but even so, who even _knew_ what had been on it before the covering was there?

Stretching himself long on the rickety, old, brass-framed bed, Castiel gave out a sleepy hum. Even though it had been a couple of weeks since he’d lost his job and kicked his douchey ex to the curb, Castiel was still very much enjoying not having anyone, or anything, to get up for in the mornings. He could rise when he wanted and deal with the day as it came.

Today, though, he was going to put a dent in this farmhouse. _Well,_ he thought to himself, _bad phrasing. This place has enough dents already._ But he was definitely going to make progress.

Castiel Shurley was his own boss now, and when he said jump, he jumped…out of bed.

He rolled over, fully anticipating flinging himself out of bed with a burst of energy…only to come face-to-face with a slowly chewing pig.

“AHHHH!”

Castiel spun away from the snuffling creature that was occupying half of the other pillow so fast that he flopped out of the bed, landing on the bare floorboards with another strangled cry.

“Fatback!” Castiel yelled angrily. There was a small snorting noise, then the bed wiggled and creaked, and the pig’s head came over the edge of the mattress, peering down at Castiel curiously.

Filled with a kind of porcine-hatred that Castiel never knew he had in him, Castiel let out a primal cry as he flipped up from his back onto his feet, lunging at the pig. Fatback squealed in panic, and the chase began—Castiel tailed Fatback out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and through the hallway, screaming obscenities until the pig dashed out of the duct-taped front door, taking both the tape and the door with him.

“Alright,” Castiel said, low and angry. “Item one on the agenda; fix the damn door. Then investigate pig-proof fencing.”

Schlepping his way into the kitchen slowly, Castiel made his way over to the sink in the thick socks he’d slept in, doing his best to avoid anything on the floor that would be _too_ horrific to feel underfoot. Resting his weight on the old countertop, Castiel yawned before reaching to turn on the brass tap. He’d need to buy some kind of special polish to—

“AHHHHHHH!”

The tap came off in his hand. Castiel flailed wildly, slapping his hands around the open pipe that was left after the handle parted ways from the metal piping. A veritable eruption of slightly brown water burst up out of the opening at high pressure, drenching the ceiling, the counters, and Castiel. He tried to jam his thumb over the hole, but it only seemed to increase the pressure of the angry jets, not quell anything. He tried sticking the tap back on, somewhat feebly, but the metal had snapped right off.

“OINK,” he heard from the doorway.

“Shut up, you judgmental asshole!” Castiel yelled. “Unless you can tell me where the stop tap is, get out of here!”

The pig eyed him flatly, before plodding off down the hall toward the living room.

It took a few minutes, but Castiel finally located the little red wheel thing under the sink that would turn the water off.

Fine.

Castiel grabbed the wet, broken tap from where he’d dropped it in the sink, and then stalked off upstairs to get a clean t-shirt and his boots. If this was the way the farm wanted to play, then Castiel was going to come out swinging.

When he’d been looking for something to seal up the door the night before, Castiel had seen a golf cart in the barn—probably, he thought, used by the old lady in the portrait above the fireplace to get around the sizeable acreage of the farm. He didn’t have a car, and clearly public transportation this far out was just _not a thing_ , but damn it, he was getting to town somehow.

Two sealed cans of gas carefully placed on a shelf above the golf cart were the first bit of good luck Castiel had experienced since he got off the train. After giving the pig a displeased glare and a solid talking to about staying out of the house while he was gone, Castiel grabbed his wallet and broken phone and headed into town.

First stop; hardware store.

Castiel had never actually driven a golf cart before. He didn’t really see the point of golf, so he’d never played, but how hard could driving a little buggy type thing be?

It turned out that the driving was fine, if slow, but the stopping was definitely jerkier than expected. Hoping that no one saw him knock over the trash can outside Singer’s Hardware store, Castiel shoved the stray chip packets and soda cans back inside it quickly before he dashed toward the door.

Singer’s… Where had he seen that recently?

He was still pondering when he stepped inside the cool, spacious store. It was surprisingly well stocked for a small town. The air within smelled of fresh-sawn wood and motor oil, and there was a quiet radio somewhere playing Elvis Presley songs.

Castiel directed himself through the high shelves, all arranged in neat, proud aisles by product type, and moved down the one that looked like it contained plumbing supplies. A couple of other people drifted around the store, but Castiel ignored them, focused on finding a new tap. Aha! There! After a couple of minutes searching, Castiel located the eye-level shelf where there was a bin containing several similar-looking metal taps to the one that he’d accidentally ripped off the sink back at the farm.

He reached for it awkwardly, the broken tap he’d brought along for comparison clamped in his left hand…but it seemed stuck. Or, no…like someone on the other side, in the aisle running parallel to the one he was on, was trying to get to the box, too. Castiel tugged harder. Suddenly, whoever was on the other side seemed to realize what was happening and let go.

The bin of metal taps flew forward, yanked straight off the shelf by Castiel’s pulling, and emptied itself all over the floor.

Castiel looked down at the taps dejectedly as they clanged and bounced and rolled around his feet. He sighed. Of course.

Looking back up, he peered through the newly created gap in the shelf…and saw a pair of familiar green eyes staring back at him. “Of course,” he muttered out loud. It _would_ be the dildo guy again.

The eyes disappeared, and then sandy-hair and bowlegs appeared around the end of the aisle. He gave out a low whistle.

“Beautiful,” he said, his eyes resting on Castiel.

Castiel’s throat gave out a low clicking noise that he felt in his ears. “I—what?”

“Genuine nineteen-hundreds brass tap you’ve got there,” the man said, reaching forward to grasp the broken one that Castiel still held, pulling it from his fingers. “Absolute beauty, she’ll clean up real nice.”

_Oh._

“Well, I’m replacing it,” Castiel said. “With a contemporary, eco-friendly, low-flow faucet that actually works. But for now, I just need a matching tap.”

The man’s frown was gentle, seeming genuinely confused. “But this is hand-finished brass,” he argued. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

Frowning, Castiel grabbed the tap back. “Why are you always where I am?” he snapped.

The guy raised one of those stupidly perfect eyebrows and gave out a tiny, snarky grin. “I’m the one that’s lived here my whole life, so maybe you’re the one where I am,” he suggested.

Fumbling, Castiel tried to shove the assorted taps back in the bin and get them back up on the shelf, but he was so flustered by those dumb bowlegs being so _close_ that he managed to drop half of them again, bouncing them off the metal shelving with a succession of loud clangs.

From the other end of the aisle they were standing in there came a low, but loud, grumbling voice. “Clean up on aisle three!”

Castiel looked up to see a bushy-mustached, older black man with a disapproving squint staring at them.

“Don’t worry, Rufus, I’ve got it,” the green-eyed annoyance said, crouching down to help Castiel gather the taps. To Castiel, he smiled amiably, lifting the tub back up onto the shelf. “You’ve gotta go easy on these old shelves. Bobby’s not one to throw things away, and some of the drawers and bins get a bit stiff—”

“I am well aware of how to open a drawer, thank you,” Castiel found himself snipping short-temperedly. “We have those in the city too, y’know.”

“Whoa,” the guy said, biting back a grin as he held up his hands. “Cool your jets, buddy, I only meant—”

“That you know better than I do?”

“Hey, now—”

“Look here, _buddy_ ,” Castiel said, jabbing his broken tap forward pointedly. “After losing both my boyfriend and my job in the space of twenty-four hours—” The man grimaced, but Castiel blundered on. “—and moving to the country to find out that the farm I’d been sold to convert into a viable business is an _abomination,_ I am at the end of a very short rope. So how about: I will cool my jets when and where I please?”

Pursing his lips quietly, the guy nodded and took a slow step back. “Yep, yeah, got it. You, uh, relax on your own schedule.”

With that, he backed away and left Castiel to it. A split second later, Castiel’s attention was called up again, by the same employee—“Rufus”—that had glared at him before.

“Hey,” Rufus said pointedly, narrowing his eyes. “Cool your jets.”

***

The proprietor of Singer’s Hardware store (Oh, sure, _now_ Castiel realized where he’d seen the name before: stretched out over dildo-guy’s pecs the day prior…) turned out to be a grumbling, bearded man in his sixties who wore a lot of camo print for a civilian and topped it all off with a baseball cap.

“Ahh,” he said as Castiel approached with the most-matchy tap he’d been able to find, “you must be the new owner of Bellbird Valley Farm.”

“Yes. I’m quite easy to spot, it seems,” Castiel said on a sigh, dropping the tap on top of the counter, amidst the weekly town newspapers and copious fliers and business cards for local services.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the older man said amiably, offering his hand. “We just don’t get a lot of new people, is all. I’m Bobby, Bobby Singer. This is mine and Rufus’ store.”

“Ahh,” Castiel replied, his eyes flicking to the end of the register where the guy he’d yelled at dildo man in front of lurked. “I see. Well, I’m Castiel Shurley, and you had it right—I’m the new owner of the farm.”

“And I suppose her plumbing isn’t quite up to scratch,” Bobby mused, reaching down to pick up the tap Castiel had chosen and turning it over in his hands before reaching for the broken one, comparing them.

“Honestly, there’s not much that _is_ up to scratch,” Castiel admitted. “I was hoping that I could do most of the work myself, but I’ll be honest, my DIY skills have only been applied to flatpack furniture.”

Bobby chuckled, handing both of the taps back to Castiel. “Well, we all start somewhere, son.”

“It’s a much bigger project than I thought. I might have to hire someone who can do renovations, if I can afford one.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Bobby said. He looked across to Rufus and they exchanged smiles, both nodding proudly. “We’ve got one of the finest contractors in the state, I’d wager, right here in Bellbird Valley.”

Bobby’s pronouncement was like the sun coming up over the hills, birds beginning to sing, the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, and the satisfying feeling of having sweat away a few hundred calories. Oh, glory.

“That is the best news I have heard in weeks,” Castiel said, and it was no lie. “Who is he?”

“Dean Winchester,” Bobby announced, digging out a small plastic bag from under the counter for Castiel to put his taps in, which Castiel declined.

“Great! Do you have his number?”

“Hey, Dean,” Bobby called, leaning to the side to see around Castiel to the other end of the store. “What’s your number?”

Immediately, Castiel whirled around so that he could meet the contractor and beg at his feet for help—only to see the sarcastic bowlegged dude sauntering down toward the register.

“Who wants my number?” Bowlegs—Dean—asked. “Everyone _has_ my number already, I haven’t changed it in ten years.”

“Oh, no—” Castiel hissed to Bobby quietly. “It’s fine, really, I don’t need—”

“This is Castiel Shurley,” Bobby boomed out almost proudly, as if he was as chuffed as anything to have information that Dean didn’t. “He’s the new owner of Bellbird Valley Farm, and he wants your number.”

“Why do you want my number?” Dean asked with a grin that Castiel _really_ didn’t like.

“I don’t!”

“But you just _asked_ for his number,” Bobby said, his bushy eyebrows meeting in confusion.

“No, no, I didn’t—well, I did, but I didn’t realize…you know what, I’m fine,” Castiel said, throwing a handful of bills down on top of the counter. “My mistake, I should—I should really go.”

Red, annoyed, and mortified, he dashed out of the store chased only by the mocking jingling of the bell over the door.

***

After dropping his broken phone off with Ash at the seriously dodgy, odd-smelling RV that Dean had recommended behind the café—and what an experience that had been—Castiel decided to while away the time that it was being fixed by grabbing a coffee and a snack at the Roadhouse. Preferably, he thought quietly to himself, a snack that Kaia had made, rather than Claire.

“Castiel!” Claire greeted him, looking genuinely surprised to see him. “You survived the night!”

Kaia shook her head quietly through the kitchen serving window. “Claire,” she chastised gently before calling over to Castiel, “Ignore her, she’s convinced that Bellbird is haunted.”

“Oh?” said Castiel, digging his wallet out of his pocket and strolling past the busy tables up to the register. “Who by?”

“Oh, Mabel Braeden, of course,” Kaia explained.

“Ahh, yes. The old woman who is currently judging me from above my fireplace. Dean did say her name was Mabel.”

“Oh? Dean’s been over to the farm already, has he?” Claire butted in, so far from nonchalant that Castiel’s fingers itched to pinch her mouth shut. But, he knew better; Claire was in charge of the coffee.

“Yes, he, uh…he stopped by to let me know where to get my phone fixed. You haven’t exactly got a Batteries Plus store around here.”

“Who needs one? We’ve got Ash.”

“I suppose that is the reverse of it,” Castiel allowed.

“Go sit down,” Claire said, jabbing her thumb across at an empty table not far from the register. “I’ve got you, old man.”

“I’m thirty-four, not—”

“Stop dressing like you’re on your third midlife crisis, then.”

Castiel looked down at his slacks and suit. He was used to dressing like this whenever he left the house; it was _normal._ But he didn’t want to look old. Did Dean think he looked old?

Goddammit, who cared what dildo man thought, anyway?

“Coffee with coconut milk—just for you,” Claire said, startling Castiel out of his thoughts as she placed a neat little white cup and saucer down in front of him, along with a small china plate. “And,” she added, “a slice of our ginger-apple pastry that you just have to try.”

The plate and cup didn’t match, but they weren’t styrofoam, and the fact that Claire had obtained coconut milk—Castiel’s favorite—had him feeling oddly cozy inside. “Thank you, Claire,” he said warmly, tugging the little plate toward him. “Kaia made this?”

“She sure did,” Claire said, and it was adorable how much pride shone in her eyes. “Kaia is fluent in pastry.”

Coming up behind Claire with a white towel over her shoulder, Kaia gave Castiel a little wink. “It’s one of the languages of love.”

Castiel picked up the small fork that rested on the side of the plate next to the flaky, gooey looking apple pastry. It smelled divine, sweet and appley and tangy with ginger. The bell above the door chimed, but neither of the proprietors looked over at it—they were both intently watching for Castiel’s first bite. Easing the fork inside his mouth, Castiel clamped his lips around it hungrily….and oh, God, that was _heaven._ Castiel groaned out loud, letting the filthy, delighted sound linger. No reason to hide it; Kaia looked incredibly pleased by the outcome.

“See,” Claire said, “I knew he’d be an apple man.”

Castiel looked up to respond, and behind Kaia, having just walked through the door, stood none other than…Dean Winchester. Again. He really was everywhere that Castiel was.

Dean was staring wide-eyed at Castiel.

“Hey, Hasselhoff,” Claire called across to him. “Early lunch?”

“I, uh—” Dean looked decidedly uncomfortable, his eyes fixed on Castiel. “—actually, you know what, I forgot something at the station. I’ll come back in…in a bit.”

The doorbell jingled more forlornly as Claire and Kaia exchanged a confused look.

Crap. Castiel had never intended to make things with Dean so awkward that they couldn’t even share a café. After a small sigh, Castiel shook his head and returned his attention—very happily—to Kaia’s baking, with another delighted groan.

Claire lowered herself into the seat opposite Castiel, leaning back and crossing her arms over her fashionably ripped AC/DC t-shirt. “So, how’s the Bellbird?”

“The farm?”

“Yup. The town was actually built around that farm originally, you know that?”

“I did not. The town is definitely doing better than the farm is these days though,” Castiel said around another chunky mouthful of perfect, goopy apple.

“That bad, huh?”

“There’s a pig.”

“Ahh,” Claire said knowingly. “Fatback.”

Letting out a longer sigh, Castiel lowered his fork back down to the plate. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. My DIY skills are more centered around apartment living than farmhouse overhaul. And I do believe I’ve scared off any chance of hiring the best, and I’m guessing the only, contractor that you have here.”

“Dean?”

“Yes. Though…he said station, a moment ago? Was I rude to the local P.D., too?”

Claire grinned, her blonde waves bouncing as she shook her head. “No, no. Dean is our local builder. We’re hardly big enough for him to make a whole living, so he picks up hours at his uncle Bobby’s store when he’s not on sites. But, on top of that, he’s also a volunteer firefighter.”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Castiel noted.

“Small town,” Claire answered, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table before she continued, quieter. “Though Dean and me…well, when I was a teenager, I ran away from home. I was having a bad time of things. I’d just realized I was gay and my family…they struggled with it at first."

Castiel tilted his head sympathetically, letting Claire continue.

"My dad’s the local pastor—you look a lot like him, actually, but less judgey—and my mom is, well, high strung.”

Castiel winced but didn’t interrupt. He’d traveled in LGBTQIA circles for long enough in his life that he’d heard more than one tale that began like Claire’s.

“Well, Dean took me in. He was only in his twenties himself at the time, but he looked out for me. He raised his little brother, and I guess after Sam left and then he lost—well, that’s not our business. But he watched out for me, is all. He’s a good guy.”

“That seems a little at odds with what I’ve seen of him. He’s been nothing but sarcastic since I stepped off the train.” Castiel couldn’t help but prickle a little at the idea that this annoying dildo man was somehow beloved by the local town populace.

Claire laughed. “Well, that’s just Dean for you. I get him, on that front. We’re a little the same, him and me. But he’s actually the town’s most eligible bachelor, or he would be if he wasn’t entirely emotionally unavailable and a sarcastic ass,” she said, pushing up from her seat with a wicked grin.

“Well, good luck to the women of Bellbird Valley, then,” Castiel noted dryly.

“Oh,” Claire said, with a cruel wink as she headed back to the register, “the men too.”

Well.

That…was information that should make absolutely no difference to Castiel.

Nope.

None.

Finishing off his coffee and pastry in record time, Castiel got up and threw a twenty in the tip jar with a grin at Kaia.

“Heading back out to your farm?” she said, smiling thankfully.

“Yes. I have to go pick up my phone, but then I’ll be forced to face it again, or it’ll never be the thriving inn I was hoping for.”

“Thriving inn, huh?” Kaia said with a wince. “You definitely didn’t get that. But you can work towards it.”

Castiel nodded. “I’ve actually been wondering if there’s any kind of legal action I can take against the person who sold it to me.”

“That’s a good thought. Here—” Kaia leaned across the counter, looking through the little spinner of local business cards before she picked one out. “—this is who you need. I’m sure he’ll at least know what your chances are, and you should meet him anyway. He’s got a small local office that he opens one day a week, when he’s not working in the city.”

“Oh, thank you,” Castiel said eagerly, taking the card from between Kaia’s outstretched fingers.

His heart sunk in his chest as he looked down at the simple cream and burgundy card. Well, of course. It would be, wouldn’t it?

_Samuel Winchester, Attorney At Law._

***

By the time Castiel brought the golf cart to a (rather jerky) stop in front of his porch, he was pretty tired. He felt like it had been a _day_ , between his run-in with Dean at the hardware store, getting his phone fixed, and scaring Dean away from the Roadhouse Café, even though it was actually only mid-afternoon. His mood was buoyed, though, despite his weariness and his run-in with Bellbird Valley’s most eligible bachelor. His phone was fixed, and he’d managed to chat with Meg, who had declared that if he was going to be stuck in Bellbird Valley for a few months more than expected, she would come to visit. When the farm was clean, anyway, and had begun to resemble an actual inn.

As Castiel climbed up his break-neck front steps to the porch, the new kitchen tap under his arm, he paused. He expected to see the flaky blue door held shut with duct tape, or, more realistically, swinging slightly open after being busted through by the pig.

Instead, the door was closed, with no tape. The dead wreath was gone, and the door itself was a suspiciously shiny, clean blue.

Castiel squinted curiously at it, approaching slowly.

“Fatback?” he called cautiously, before realizing how stupid that was. A pig would not paint his front door a beautiful bluebird hue.

Once he’d made his way up onto the porch itself, dodging the already-broken first step as well as the fourth one which seemed like it might be well on the way to joining its splintered brother, Castiel could see that there was a folded sheet of white paper tucked under his doormat.

The doormat was gross, he decided. He should trash that.

On the front of the paper, in scratchy cheap Bic pen, someone had written: Cas.

_Cas?_

Castiel was just called…well, Castiel, unless people knew him very well. Balthazar had called him Cassie, but he hated that. And Meg called him Clarence and various other odd names, but she was most definitely in San Francisco—he’d just finished speaking to her before he’d braved the country roads on the golf cart. 

Curiously, Castiel unfolded the paper.

_Hey, Cas._

_Sorry, I have no idea how to spell your full name. I like Cas, though. I think that might stick._

_I wanted to apologize for being a bit of a jerk to you since you arrived. I didn’t mean anything by it, but_ _Bobby yelled at me_ _I realized that as you don’t know me, I might have come across badly._

_So, anyway. I fixed your door. It was a quick job and you really can’t be living here with a broken front door, country or not. Wouldn’t want you to come to any harm._

_Sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. If you don’t like the color I can change it. This one just made me think of you and matched the farm. It’s quick-drying but be careful._

_See you around, I guess._

_\- Dean Winchester, Local Handyman and Flying Dildo Connoisseur_

Castiel couldn’t help but laugh, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. _What a dork_ , he thought, shaking his head. Dean must have come straight here after his aborted attempt to get lunch at the Roadhouse Café, he realized, and rehung the door while Castiel finished up his errands in town.

Next to the note on the floor there was a shiny, freshly cut key. Dean probably hadn’t known where to find Castiel’s key, he reasoned, as he’d left it in the bedroom upstairs, and hadn’t wanted to lock Castiel out.

Gingerly letting himself inside, watching his fingers on the paint, Castiel admired the door. It was sturdy and well hung—possibly the sturdiest thing in the whole house at this point—and the paint was perfect, not a streak in sight. Dean did good work. It was really very kind of him, Castiel decided, feeling a little guilty about his previous hasty judgements. Alright, perhaps they weren’t friends, yet. But maybe now they could share a room without awkwardness, Castiel hoped.

Castiel closed the door carefully and stepped inside the wide hallway beyond. It was slightly less dusty than before. Dean must have had to clear a little of it to work and not get dust in the paint, Castiel realized, as there was a shiny, clean patch of floor just on the inside of the door. It was a nice floor, when it was clean. Bringing his eyes up from the dustless swatch of hardwood, Castiel realized that on the house side of the door, there was a knee-level imprint of a pig snout in the paint.

Of course there was.

Still holding the note, Castiel stepped into the kitchen to put down the tap he’d purchased—he’d have to do a little googling later to work out how to install it.

His eyes were caught by a flash of blue on the table.

It seemed that Dean hadn’t kept his meddling just to the door, but Castiel couldn’t be mad about it. In the midst of the hastily wiped-down old wooden table that took up one half of the kitchen, there was an old crystal vase, likely taken from one of the glass-fronted kitchen cabinets. It was filled with blue wildflowers.

Castiel approached and picked up the vase, dropping his tap on the table so that he could appreciate the bellflowers, blue aster, and larkspur that made up the simple, loose bouquet. He wouldn’t have pictured Dean as the flowery type, but clearly he had the man wrong on more than one level. The flowers were a housewarming gift, of a sort, Castiel supposed. He couldn’t help but smile; they certainly did help brighten up the dusty kitchen.

Folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back on one of the rickety countertops, taking in the pretty gift and the freshly painted door he could see through the arched doorway that led to the kitchen.

Maybe Bellbird Valley wouldn’t be so terrible after all.


	4. Chapter 4

“Here, piggy-piggy-piggy,” Castiel crooned gently. “Come on Fatback, come to daddy!”

The pig stared him down from the other end of the second-floor landing. It was a look that said,  _ No way, Jose! Out of luck, Buck! You ain’t getting that thing on me. _

Castiel jingled the collar temptingly.

It was a cute collar. Castiel had spoken to the lady who worked in the farm supply store a couple of miles on the other side of town, desperate for help after he’d been woken up for the third day in a row by pig-alarm. They didn’t usually carry anything for the kind of animals that needed collars, she’d said, just feed and hay and pellets, but she’d see what she could order him that would be suitable.

A couple of days later, she gave him a call. And now, finally, after almost a week at Bellbird Valley Farm, Castiel had some way of (hopefully) keeping track of Fatback.

“Look how pretty it is,” Castiel said sweetly, jangling the silver bell that hung from it. “Doesn’t it look  _ interesting _ , Fatback? Huh?”

Alright, fine, Castiel could hear himself and he couldn’t blame the pig one bit when it snorted loudly, turned around, and ambled off into bedroom three.

Castiel was hopeless. Even pig corralling aside, he wanted to quit, to call Balthazar and grovel, to call all of his industry contacts back in San Francisco and beg for a job doing someone’s filing or licking someone’s boots. 

He’d spent two days just cleaning out the living room. At first he tried good ol’ fashioned elbow grease and a few decent rags. By day two, he’d resigned himself to scooping pig poop with a fancy steel shovel that’d cost him more than the land transfer tax he’d paid for the whole dump.

After he cleaned up the biohazards, Castiel moved onto painting. That'd taken a couple more days, because it turned out that Fatback liked to break down baby gates meant to keep him out of the house, in attempts to stick his nose in said paint.

If he could just find a way to deal with the semi-feral hog, he kept telling himself, life would feel less chaotic.

Hunkering down once more, Castiel decided to have one more try before he needed to leave and fuel up the golf cart so he could make it to town.

“Alright, you stubborn creature. This collar, on your neck. That’s all I want.” Castiel moved up to the bedroom door, his weight down low, his hands spread wide.

Fatback came barreling out of the bedroom with such speed that he knocked Castiel straight onto his back, starfish-ing him on the landing floor before trampling straight over his stomach to get to the stairs.

_ “Oof!” _

“Oink!”

“Asshole!”

“OINK!”

Castiel lay there for a few minutes, contemplating life, the universe, and everything that had led him to this point before he let out a long sigh and rolled onto his knees, pushing up and dusting off his slacks. He abandoned the collar on the floor, knowing that he was well beaten.

At least for now.

Twenty peaceful, pig-free minutes later, Castiel pulled the golf cart up outside of the neat, burgundy-painted office of Mr. Samuel Winchester, Attorney at Law. He’d called the number on the business card that Claire had given him a few days before, and a warm, calm voice had instructed him to stop by at five this afternoon. So, taking the keys from the cart, Castiel went to knock on the door.

He knew he should look at obtaining a car, as he was going to be here longer than expected. He couldn’t drive the golf cart for however many months it took to not only make the farm livable, but then start converting it into a viable eco-inn after. But, right then, a car was just one in a long line of small problems.

One of the tallest men Castiel had ever personally come across opened the door. Castiel wasn’t short; he was pushing toward six feet if his hair was particularly poofy that day. But this man looked down at him, all wide shoulders and silky hair that hung long about his ears.

Castiel did a quick mental double-check that his expression was schooled into a polite  _ Hello, nice to meet you _ and not  _ Holy fuck, you’re tall.  _ He’d mostly succeeded.

“You must be Castiel,” the tall man said, smiling widely. “I’m Sam. Please, come in.”

Nodding a greeting, Castiel affirmed the assumption and they made small talk about the weather as Sam led him inside the tiny rented office.

“Apologies that it’s not more spacious, I only ever take a handful of clients in here. This is essentially my home office, my wife and I live in the apartment upstairs,” Sam apologized.

“Not a problem,” Castiel assured him swiftly. “Claire mentioned that you worked in the city most of the time.”

“Yes,” Sam nodded. “It’s a bit of a commute, but Bellbird Valley is where I grew up. I came back here after college and I couldn’t bear to leave again.”

“It’s, uh, pretty,” Castiel tried. “A nice place to live, I’m sure.”

“Not quite sure about it yet?” Sam asked smiling knowingly as he led Castiel into a simple office with beige walls, an oak desk, and a deep brownish-red carpet. An array of floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the opposite wall as Castiel stepped inside the slightly stuffy room, weighed down with hefty tomes. Castiel had to assume that they were mostly law books—though he noted spines that declared other topics, too, from nutrition to religion to geology. Clearly, Sam Winchester was an intelligent and well-read man.

Castiel lowered himself into the offered seat before answering honestly, “Bellbird Valley isn’t quite what I hoped or expected when it came to being out in the country. I didn’t think I was going to be here as long, actually, but the farm needs a lot of work. Right now…I miss San Francisco quite a bit.”

Sam grinned as he eased his way down into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “I understand completely. I went to school in California—Stanford Law—and it was a huge adjustment to come back. I really only did it to be closer to family. But once you get used to it here, don’t be surprised if you fall in love.”

Castiel nodded noncommittally.

“So,” Sam continued, “It’s Bellbird Valley Farm you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes, if you have time,” Castiel said hopefully.

“Time isn’t a problem, really. Honestly, I was eager to meet our new resident anyway, just like everyone else in town. Before we get started though—” Sam leaned back in his chair, holding up a finger as he made his point. “—I should tell you that property law isn’t necessarily my specific field of expertise. But general questions I can hopefully help you with, and maybe I’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”

“I understand.” Castiel nodded appreciatively, leaning back further in his seat as he tried to work out where to begin.

“In your own time then, Castiel.” Sam leaned onto the desk, slipping the cap of a heavy, metal nibbled ink pen and pulling a yellow legal pad over in front of himself. Smiling calmly, he waited.

In the end, Castiel started at the beginning: telling Sam about losing his job and accepting the deal from Crowley, talking him through the purchase process and his arrival in Bellbird Valley. Sam made all of the correct sympathetic noises, adding in the odd “uh-huh” and “hmm” to show he was listening, and making the odd illegible scribble on his notepad.

“Well,” Sam said when Castiel was done, capping his pen and bringing his hands together, “the bad news is that it’s quite unlikely that you would be able to successfully sue Mr. Crowley for breach of contract, as you agreed to the sale as-is without viewing the property yourself. There’s a chance there could be some avenues to go down through false advertising or such, but again, you may be hard-pressed to get a judge to see your side, in my professional opinion.”

Castiel slumped further into the chair. He’d known that; he was just grasping at straws, really, but…well, he’d had at least a little hope, and hearing it dashed out loud was disappointing.

“I do feel for you though, Castiel,” Sam said sympathetically. “So, just in case, I will suggest one more thing, maybe?”

Sitting up again, Castiel was immediately buoyed. “Oh?”

“If you can give me time to do it, I can try and obtain all the permits and bills of sale relating to both your transaction with Mr. Crowley and the one before it, where he purchased the place on behalf of Garrison. It’s a very, very, long shot—I don’t want to get your hopes up too much—but if I can find an irregularity in the sale, you may have some recourse.”

Against Castiel’s leg, his phone started vibrating rapidly. He silenced it twice, before giving Sam an apologetic look and tugging it out of his pocket.

_ Missed Call (2): Balthazar. _

Scowling briefly at the screen, Castiel turned his phone off and swiftly returned his attention back to Sam with a smile of apology.

“That would be amazing, if you’d look for me—of course I’ll pay whatever your rate is for your time,” Castiel offered, eagerly. “Even if I’m stuck with the farm, if I could even offset some of the cost of repairs, it’d help me out a lot.”

Sam nodded, his face falling into a slight grimace. “Yeah, I hate to imagine what it’ll cost you to get that place livable again, never mind transform it into an inn.”

Castiel sighed, agreeing. “Yes. I had high hopes for the project, generally. I’ve been dreaming of it for a long time, an inn—or a series of them across the country—where guests can come and stay and experience eco-friendly technologies for themselves.”

“I think it sounds awesome,” Sam said, beginning to stand up from his desk. “I have to go and get ready for dinner with my wife now—maybe we can have a drink one day and you can tell me more about that side of things? I’m fascinated.”

Happy to have found someone in a hundred-mile radius who didn’t just look at him blankly, Castiel grinned as he shook Sam Winchester’s hand. “Actually, I’d really like that.”

***

After agreeing on a time for Castiel to come back and go through the results of Sam’s investigation with him, Castiel stepped back out onto the pavement and into the early-evening sunshine. It was warm and slightly breezy, just the right weather for a walk or a meal outdoors with a friend, Castiel considered.

He didn’t have any friends here.

Well, there was Claire and Kaia. They weren’t friends, exactly, but they were chatty and welcoming when he stopped by the Roadhouse Café each morning for a caffeinated pick-me-up. Claire was blunt and a little sassy, but Castiel found that he liked it, and she was exceedingly well balanced by her softer-spoken wife-to-be.

As the afternoon had worn on, Castiel had found himself feeling a little jittery and lightheaded, just slightly…off. He probably did need a good meal. That was probably it.

The Roadhouse, then, Castiel decided. He may have to get used to eating alone while he was here, but there was no reason to remain stuck at the farm eating very questionable noodle cups, PB&Js, and reheated burritos every night. He could go, sample some of Kaia’s fabled cooking, and eat it sitting in the fresh air out on the patio behind the shop. Perfect.

Castiel was only a minute away by golf cart. Surprisingly, all of the parking spots in front of the café were full—and even the little parking lot behind was fairly stuffed. Heading inside, Castiel could only blink in genuine bafflement as he made his way through the packed tables to the register—he didn’t even know the town  _ had  _ this many people.

“Hey, old man,” Claire called, waving as he approached. “You here for dinner?”

“I planned to be, if you have room?”

“Of course, we’ll squeeze you in. The committee is meeting for the summer festival, is all, and they’ve taken up most of the tables and split off into sub-committees. It’s all very exciting, apparently we get a dunk tank this year.”

Castiel blinked slowly. “Oh,” he said.

“Follow me!” Claire chirped. “Would you mind sharing a table?”

“Uh…” Castiel couldn’t really think of a decent enough reason why not as Claire led him out through the archway and onto the patio beyond.

The lowering sun provided a lovely backdrop to the courtyard beyond the café. Castiel had never been out here before. Usually, he’d just grab his coconut milk coffee and chat for a few minutes before heading back home (cheerfully taking one of Claire’s cookies to ‘sample’ later, when he was near a convenient trash can). He honestly hadn’t had any idea all of this was back here.

A low wall, topped with a trough of drooping vines and flowers, ran around the outside of the stone-slabbed courtyard. There were a bunch more tables, almost as many as back inside, all with umbrellas overhead that had been strung with twinkling lights. A low firepit of charcoal bricks flickered gently in the midst of them all, and from the sound of trickling water, Castiel guessed that there was a small ornamental waterfall or pond at the back, behind the clusters of patrons.

“This is lovely,” he said aloud to Claire.

“Oh yeah,” she agreed. “Bobby and Dean built it for Ellen a few summers ago. It’s really expanded how much business we can do in the evenings.”

Castiel nodded. The stonework was beautiful and, begrudgingly, he had to admit to himself that from what he’d seen, Dean’s work was exquisite.

“Here we go,” Claire said, her voice just a little too bright and breezy for Castiel’s liking. “You won’t mind sharing with Castiel, will you, Hasselhoff? He was just admiring your handiwork on the patio.”

_ Oh, God. _

Castiel fixed Claire with a pointed glare, but from her shit-eating grin, she had no shame about what she’d done.

“Oh, was he now?” came Dean’s warm, syrupy drawl. “Always happy to eat with a fan,” he quipped, pushing his leg out under the table so that his toes nudged back the empty bistro chair across from him.

Swallowing awkwardly, Castiel let out a breath. He could do this. Well, he  _ had _ to do this. The alternative was turning tail and running, which would not only be humiliating, but given the glint in Claire’s eye would also involve a significant chance that she would stick her foot out and trip him if he tried.

“Hello, Dean,” he managed.

“Hey, Cas. Sit down, I won’t bite. Promise.”

Claire snorted, tossing them two menus from the table next to theirs. “If you’re gonna, at least wait until everyone is done eating. This is a restaurant, not one of those kinky homes for the elderly with visiting strippers.”

Castiel was busy burning bright red at the insinuations that Claire was making about him and Dean—it was like she  _ knew _ that his fantasies of late had been becoming distinctly bow-legged—but Dean was in the midst of outrage about her other allusions, instead.

“I am not old, how dare you!” Dean reached back, running his hands back through his hair. “I’m not that ancient. I still look alright, right Cas?”

Castiel sighed. How far away was that fountain? If Claire tripped him, was there some blessed chance he’d drown? He slunk down into the offered seat and determinedly picked up his menu. He could focus on the food, he told himself. Ignoring Dean’s leading question about his looks, Castiel looked back up to Claire.

“I’ve heard a lot of good things about Kaia’s cooking.”

Claire’s mischievous expression melted into something softer.  _ Bingo, _ Castel thought. One foolproof way to get Claire off whatever snarky tangent she was on was to bring up her wife-to-be, he’d noticed. It was adorable.

“Oh, yes,” Claire was saying eagerly. “She’s fantastic. Best burgers in town,” she declared.

“Ahh,” Dean said, holding up a finger. “Second best.”

“Open your own restaurant, then,” Claire snipped fondly. “Until then, Kaia gets the crown.”

Dean grinned up at Claire, clearly thinking the sassy, besotted young woman was just as cute as Castiel did. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “I’m not going to try and usurp your wifey’s crown. Tales tell she’s got a vicious bodyguard.”

“She sure does,” Claire agreed.

Leaving Castiel and Dean with their menus, Claire headed off back inside to deal with other customers, and silence fell at the small bistro-style table. After an awkward couple of minutes, Castiel cleared his throat.

“So, you’d recommend a burger, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said calmly, his eyes on his menu. “Double stacked local beef with Roy’s bacon and cheese from just the other side of the city. Can’t be beat. Y’know, as long as you’re a meat man. Are you?”

Something stuck in Castiel’s throat. “Am—Am I what?”

“A meat man,” Dean repeated with a vicious grin.

“I like burgers,” Castiel said flatly. “And, yes, I’m also gay, if that’s what your ridiculous double-entendre is about.” Castiel  _ refused _ to find Dean funny. He absolutely refused. He wasn’t going to laugh once through his entire dinner, he decided. Dean’s ego didn’t need the help.

“Ahh, I was just messing with you,” Dean said, smiling more gently. “I already knew that.”

Castiel blinked, before squinting across at Dean. “You did? How?”

“You yelled it at me in the hardware store, remember?”

“Oh,” Castiel said, flushing slightly. Yup, yup. Now he remembered yelling at Dean, crouched on the floor of Bobby’s hardware store, surrounded by dropped metal taps. He’d shouted that he’d lost his job  _ and _ his boyfriend on the same day. Crap. “Yes, I uh, I suppose I did.”

Dean was smirking, but for once it wasn’t the shit-eating, snarky expression that Castiel had come to associate with the contractor and apparent firefighter. Instead, it just looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh, not wanting to hurt Castiel’s feelings.

Castiel let out a small sigh. “Go on. You can laugh, it was pretty funny.”

Almost relieved, Dean’s face broke into a wide grin. “It was. I am sorry, though. I didn’t mean to be such a jerk.”

“You already apologized,” Castiel allowed, giving Dean a small smile. “I, uh, wanted to call you actually, and say thank you. For the door. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you?”

“Well,” Castiel said, a small smirk quirking the corner of his own lip, now, “it turns out, I really  _ don’t  _ have your number.”

Dean’s laugh was a thing of beauty, deep and rumbling, the vibrations of it somehow rolling through the air between them and punching Castiel right in the chest. How dare this exasperating man be so, so beautiful? It was infuriating how breathless he left Castiel, like a dumb kid with his first crush. Castiel hadn’t felt this fluttery about another person since…well, ever. Particularly not about Balthazar.

It was a shame, really, that he wouldn’t be here long.

Not that he was really considering it, of course.

Dean was still a bit of a jerk sometimes, he reminded himself. And probably not remotely interested. And definitely, definitely not funny.

Castiel laughed a lot over dinner.

By the time they’d sunk their teeth into their burgers, though, Castiel was also sneezing.

“This really is a delicious— _ Ahhhh—ahhh—choo!” _

“Bless you,” Dean said, grabbing a paper napkin and sliding it in Castiel’s direction. “Here. And yeah, they’re so good. But…I really do still think that mine are better.”

“Really?” said Castiel, snuffling into his tissue in embarrassment. “Better than  _ this? _ ”

“Oh yeah,” Dean said, nodding very solemnly. “Kaia makes amazing patties. But the secret is getting them cooked on a grill or a griddle pan, not just pan-fried like this. It’s hard for her to do in a restaurant, so I’m not saying—”

“ACHOOOOO!” Castiel interrupted. He was starting to feel a little lightheaded.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, pulling his head back a little and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, of course, I’m fine,” Castiel said, waving at him to continue. “Go on.”

“Alright, well, when I make my burgers, I like to…Cas?” Dean’s brow crinkled softly. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look really out of it.”

“Uh,” Castiel blinked groggily, picking his burger back up. “I’m sure I’m fine, Dean. Just allergies or something, perhaps. I have the immune system of a horse… I try to eat well, and I do a lot of yoga. Or I did, before the train stole my yoga mat.”

Dean gave him a puzzled stare.

“Long story,” Castiel said weakly. “I like to exercise, is my point.”

Dean picked his own burger back up in turn and gave Castiel one of his godforsaken winks. “That explains the ass.”

Castiel was mid-swallow. Struggling not to choke in surprise, he dropped his delicious burger back down and grabbed the napkin Dean had thrust toward him, coughing into it desperately.

“Sorry!” Dean chuckled, not sounding sorry at all as he grabbed another handful of paper napkins and handed them over.

Castiel couldn’t stop coughing, though. It was like once he started, his lungs realized they had the option and just wouldn’t cease. He sucked in air desperately between bouts, but the cough was already sounding rattly and rough deep down in his chest.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand came across the table, resting gently on Castiel’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound like you’re getting sick.”

“Really, Dean, I haven’t been sick in—”  _ Years, _ he tried to say, before being cut off by another bout of coughing.

“Come on,” Dean said, sounding far more concerned than Castiel thought was entirely necessary. “Let’s get you home, I can give you a ride.”

“I have my own ride,” Castiel croaked, allowing himself to be guided to his feet by the firm hand at his shoulder.

“You mean Mabel’s old golf cart?” Dean said pointedly. “That is not a ride. That’s a cry for help.”

Castiel fixed Dean with a grumpy stare, but he was already speaking again.

“Please, let me take you home in Baby. It’ll be warmer. Hey, Claire!” Dean waved the blonde over, and she quickly hustled across from the other side of the patio, tucking a small order pad into the back pocket of her black jeans.

“What’s up, Dean?”

“Can you close out our tab? Here,” Dean answered quickly. Before Castiel knew what was happening, he was pulling out his wallet and shoving a small wad of bills into Claire’s hands. “That should cover mine and his, and a good tip, too. I’m gonna give Cas a ride home, I think he’s getting sick.”

“Oh no!” Claire looked oddly appalled, as if a little bout of allergies was the worst thing in the world. “I thought he looked a little peaky, but I guessed it was just the prospect of spending the evening sitting opposite you.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Dean said, rolling his eyes and beginning to guide Castiel through the tables toward the door, his hand warm on the base of Castiel’s back.

“Don’t worry, gramps!” Claire called after them, smiling at Castiel. “Let Dean look after you, I’ll get someone to bring the golf cart by later!”

Sighing, defeated, Castiel gave her a grateful smile before Dean hustled him on through the café and out onto the street. “How’d you even know I was driving the golf cart, anyway?” Castiel asked, in between another couple of bouts of lingering coughing.

Dean winced as Castiel wheezed, but just shrugged and said, “Bobby saw you driving it, I guess. He told Rufus, and Rufus saw Ellen over at—”

“You know what,” Castiel snapped glumly, without any heat, “never mind. I get it.”

“’Bout time you did,” Dean answered with a small grin, opening the door of his sleek Chevy which he’d parked just up the street, and bowing down to gesture Castiel within. “In you get, Cas.”

His willpower conquered, Castiel slipped into the passenger seat and blew his nose loudly in response. 

__


	5. Chapter 5

It turned out that going out into the fresh air on an open-top golf cart, after drenching yourself head-to-toe in water from a broken tap, and then working on an old house non-stop for several days while already reasonably stressed, was a recipe for a really hellishly vicious cold.

Dean dropped Castiel off at the end of the farm driveway, at the flaking Bellbird Valley Farm sign. As they pulled up in the car, Dean frowned up at the sign in a distantly annoyed kind of way, and Castiel had an odd feeling that he might be finding it repainted at some point. He left Castiel with instructions to get himself into bed and stay warm, then watched him shuffle up the overgrown path before he roared away.

Castiel could still hear the throaty vintage engine as he fumbled his keys. As much as he wanted to resist doing anything that Dean told him to do…it seemed like, in this very particular case, Dean might actually have a fair point.

Shivering and snotty, Castiel slinked his way up the stairs and flopped down onto the bed. He didn’t even bother getting undressed, just kicked off his shoes and crawled under the covers how he was.

He awoke several hours later to a _lurch_ of the mattress as Fatback came to nose at the end of it, no doubt curious as to why Castiel hadn’t yelled at him since he’d come home. Castiel grumbled something into the pillow, but as his limbs felt like they were weighed down by lead, he merely rolled over and let Fatback get on with it.

Castiel could yell at the pig tomorrow.

When morning came, he was in no shape to yell at the pig.

Shaking and sweating, his head like cotton wool and his mouth as dry as the coffee cake Claire had attempted two days previously, Castiel was forced to admit: he had the flu.

A quick search of the understocked farm bathroom quickly told him that he had nothing resembling medicine on the premises, and whether someone had brought it to Bellbird yet or not—Castiel was so out of it he had no idea—there wasn’t much chance that he’d be able to drive all the way to town in the golf cart.

So, he gave up and went back to bed. He still had Mabel’s old bed—an impressive wrought iron thing, but only twin-sized. Though, he had ordered a new mattress already. He figured that it didn’t much matter what size bed he slept in when the only other person who occupied it had hooves and a ham butt. 

A couple more hours passed, he thought, before a knocking sound woke him up.

Prying his eyes open, Castiel let out a long groan, which turned into a hacking cough, which forced him to sit up and blow his nose. It was dark outside, he registered. He’d clearly been asleep longer than he thought…all damn day, actually.

The knocking came again, and Castiel sighed before beginning to shuffle his way to the bedroom door.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he grumbled, wondering who on Earth it could be. It wasn’t like he had any friends who’d be stopping by or any appointments.

“Cas,” Dean said, as soon as Castiel had managed to wobble his way down the stairs and open the door. “You look awful.”

His stunning green eyes still, even after several meetings, brought to mind the very best martinis, and somehow left Castiel both shaken and stirred, even so full of concern.

“Assbutt,” Castiel grumbled, before seeing the _other_ people crowded onto the porch behind Dean. The sight caused his mouth to drop open.

“What did you just call me, Dildo Boy?” Dean asked, laughing as he gently ushered Castiel back inside, stepping past him to let Claire, Kaia, and Sam in through Castiel’s front door.

They all smiled and bustled their way inside, hands full of Tupperware and brown paper bags, and Castiel couldn’t work out for the life of him what they were doing. He raised a hand to his brow, pressing the back of his wrist to his sweaty forehead, and squinted at them all.

“Exactly how much of a fever do I have?” he mumbled.

“That’s a good question,” Claire said as she whipped a thermometer out from the bag in her arms. “Here, under your tongue.”

“Wha—” Castiel couldn’t argue any more, his mouth occupied as Claire jabbed the old-fashioned thermometer forward.

The group bustled into Castiel’s kitchen, setting things down, sweeping Castiel along with them.

“I bought you some of the tea that I like when I’m sick,” Sam said cheerfully. He began rooting around in the cabinet next to the stove until he found one of the chipped—but now thankfully now clean—mugs that had come with the house.

“And I have plenty of homemade chicken soup,” Kaia announced. “Does the stove work? If not, no worries, we thought of that—Bobby sent over a microwave someone dropped off for repair and never picked up. Claire, did you want to go get that just in case?”

“Sure thing,” Claire said, having deposited her paper grocery bag on the countertop next to the sink, where Dean was squinting disapprovingly at the brass tap.

The brass tap that Castiel hadn’t _quite_ been able to work out how to fix. He’d tried. But he had a feeling the lump of duct tape around the joint was giving him away.

Claire pushed past Castiel in the doorway of the kitchen and pulled the thermometer out from his mouth as she went. “One hundred and two!” she announced, frowning. “You should be in bed, old man.”

“I was in bed,” Castiel grumbled weakly.

“Are you still wearing the same clothes you wore to the Roadhouse yesterday?” Dean questioned, sounding surprisingly stern. Before Castiel could even answer, Dean shook his head and gently grasped his elbow, guiding him back toward the stairs.

Castiel tried to find the energy to be annoyed. But as he looked back at the kitchen and saw Sam making tea and Kaia making soup, and heard the front door shut behind Claire as she went out to retrieve the microwave, he just couldn’t be.

“How did you know?” he croaked instead. “That I really got sick?”

“You didn’t turn up at the Roadhouse for your silly coconut milk coffee this morning,” Dean said with a tiny smile. “Didn’t take much to put two and two together.”

Castiel thought it probably wasn’t worth mentioning that Dean had never been around when he’d ordered his coffee. He was sure someone told someone who told someone.

Dean reached the door of Castiel’s bedroom—the only open one—and like a gentleman, paused right there and let Castiel go on inside. “If you can just find the energy to get dressed in some pajamas and into bed,” he coaxed, “we’ll bring you medicine and tea and all that in a little bit.”

He wasn’t sure quite what had come over him, it must have been the illness, but Castiel found himself almost wanting to cry. Blinking hard, he lowered his weight onto the edge of the mattress. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he squeaked out suddenly before Dean disappeared.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Dean said, frowning softly. “You’re new here, and you don’t really know anybody, seems like.”

Castiel stared down at his hands, knotted in his lap.

Dean let out a small sigh. “Alright,” he allowed. “You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t think much of Bellbird Valley. And you know…as much as that’s kinda shitty and presumptive of you, I get it. Your first impressions weren’t great, and I know it’s probably nothing on where you’re from. You probably can’t wait to get outta here and back to your Uber and your yoga studios and your carefully sanitized green technology—” Dean was picking up steam, and Castiel was almost pleased to hear that he sounded annoyed. He felt like he deserved it, after all. “—and away from our stupid little uncultured town with all its stupid little uncultured people, like me.”

Castiel desperately wanted to interrupt and apologize, because clearly his impression of the town had personally offended Dean somehow, but Dean was on a roll and already continuing, scowling as he went.

“Maybe Bellbird Valley and us folks aren’t shit, to you, Cas. Fine. But around here, if someone needs help, you help them. If someone’s new, you try to welcome them. And if you’re a jerk and make someone feel embarrassed about a dumb flying dildo, you try to make it up to them, okay?”

Dean seemed to run out of gas suddenly, shrugging his shoulders loosely as he pulled back through the doorway. “You know what...nevermind. I'm sorry. Just put on some pajamas, get into bed and rest.”

Steel-toed work boots made Dean’s steps echo as he stepped away from the bedroom, clomping his way down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Castiel called after him, without even thinking about what he meant or why he cared.

“Where do you think I’m going? I’m gonna go fix your goddamn sink, asshole, and get your soup.”

With that, Dean stomped off down the stairs.

For a minute, Castiel stayed in place, carefully balanced on the edge of the mattress with his feet on the floor. Downstairs, he could hear loud voices laughing and joking in the kitchen, and banging noises and metallic clanging as Dean got to work fixing the busted up kitchen sink.

Okay, so yes, Dean had been…a little bit of a jerk, when they first met. He clearly had a sarcastic sense of humor and some kind of defense mechanism going on where the only way he could speak to people was through a combination of joking to deflect and then overcompensating to make up for it.

But he was… _nice._ Somehow, he seemed so determinedly kind in his actions that Castiel couldn’t make head nor tails of it. It seemed like Dean would do anything for other people, as long as he didn’t have to sound like he enjoyed it.

Shaking his head in confusion, Castiel gathered his reserves of energy to get up and lurch toward the battered old dresser that he’d rescued from one of the other bedrooms, and had cleared out to put his clothes in.

If spoon theory measured energy in terms of ‘spoons’, his sudden illness certainly had Castiel feeling like he was on the very last of his. In fact, he was pretty sure that what he had left weren’t even spoon-shaped. They were those flimsy, green coffee stirrers that got stuck in the holes on top of Starbucks hot cups to stop the coffee splashing out, which neither served their purpose as stirrer or stopper very well at all. Castiel took a brief moment to be very grateful that he was usually healthy enough to not have to deal with feeling like this every day, like some people did, as he dragged his favorite pajama bottoms from the lowest drawer of the dresser. They had a huge hole in the crotch, and they were covered in tiny Porgs. Castiel only kept them because Balthazar had hated them so much.

Once he’d wrestled his way into the pajama pants and given up on a shirt, Castiel’s final coffee stirrer of energy seemed to snap, and he flopped back into the bed.

Flu was a bitch.

With the blanket settled up around his bare chest, Castiel let out a long, snotty wheeze. God, being sick was gross. Unfortunately, when he could breathe again, there was little left to occupy him beyond staring at the very questionably stained ceiling above his bed and thinking about Dean.

Yeah, Dean was a snarky, prickly ass. Sometimes.

But…he didn’t really deserve how hard Castiel had been pushing him away.

His reactions, Castiel was forced to admit to himself, had not really been about Dean. They’d been about Balthazar. Which…meant that he should probably apologize, like Dean had done with his note, and the front door, and now the stupid tap.

Castiel let out a self-pitying groan, but soon thought better of it when he started coughing again.

Psychoanalyzing himself and his mental state after his awful ex could wait until he could exhale without snot bubbles, Castiel decided. 

Sinusy, shivery, and feverish, Castiel dozed. When he woke, it was to a soft _click_ sound as the bedroom door shut.

On the nightstand—which was a fancy word for a small stack of apple crates right now—there was a tray containing a thermos of tea, medicine, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Castiel couldn’t smell it, but it looked delicious.

Hauling himself upright, Castiel pulled the tray onto his lap with a whimper of relief. Whoever brought it in had thought to include a box of tissues on the edge, and to his curiosity, a small unlabeled jar of honey with a folded piece of paper under it.

_Cas,_

_Kaia’s soup is great, hopefully it’ll stay warm until you wake up but if not the microwave is working downstairs. Sink works too. Sam’s tea tastes like ass, and I figured you’re an eco hippy type, so maybe you’d like local honey to go in it._

_Feel better._

_Dean_

_P.S. 316-292-6843_

It took Castiel a full, groggy minute of staring to register that the numbers scrawled along the bottom, a hasty addition to the note by the different pen used, were a cell phone number. Dean’s cell phone number.

Well, at least that meant that when he recovered, he could call Dean and apologize for his parts in their poor start, just as Dean had done. And maybe see if Dean would take any payment for the taps and the door.

Sinking back into his pillows with a belly full of Kaia’s fantastically flavorful chicken noodle soup, Castiel twisted to put the tray back to the side. The blankets that he’d pulled up pooled around his stomach, and he suddenly realized that if Dean had delivered the tray, then he’d probably had an eyeful of Castiel’s shirtless, sweaty, snotty body sprawled across the pillows, gross and clammy and full of flu.

 _Oh, yay_ , Castiel considered dryly.

Probably a good thing that Castiel was only here for the summer and had no intention of pursuing Dean, because there went that. Exhaling grumpily, Castiel slunk back down into the bed.

***

It took six days for Castiel to feel like a human being again. On the sixth day, a bright Tuesday morning, Castiel decided to swallow his pride, fire up the golf cart, and head into town. (Though, actually, thinking of it as a “town” was a bit of a stretch, but Castiel didn’t know what else to call it.) He took his time, chatting with Meg on speakerphone as he rattled down the country lanes.

“Are you sure I can’t make Balthazar disappear?” she sighed. “You’re in the middle of _nowhere!_ Me and Miggles miss you, don’t we smushy-kins, hmm? Come to Mama, Miggsy!”

Castiel’s cat made a strangled, desperate meow toward the phone, as if to say, _“Please come home and save me from this woman.”_

“I just need to get the farm fixed up and converted, and I’ll be back,” Castiel reminded them. “And you can visit, you know.”

“Even so,” Meg said, over the sounds of Miggles’ objections to her hideous affection. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, and Balth was always a jerk.”

“He was,” Castiel agreed. “I don’t know why I put up with him as long as I did. I just…I don’t know. I didn’t feel like I could leave, I guess.”

“If he ever so much as—”

“No, Meg,” Castiel said, unable to help a small smile at his overprotective bestie. “It wasn’t like that. I mean, I see now that it wasn’t _right,_ but he never hurt me. Honestly, he’d have ruined his manicure if he tried. I wasn’t worth that.”

Meg growled.

“He’s not worth a criminal record, Meg.”

“Wouldn’t be my first,” she snorted flippantly. “You remember that douche in that bar back in Illinois, before we moved? What the hell was his name…”

Castiel found himself smiling. “Bartholomew? Yeah, I remember. You made him swallow three of his own teeth, and said if he looked in your direction again, you’d remove the rest a lot more slowly.”

“You love me.”

By the time he hung up, Castiel was forced to admit that yes, he did. Even if he had the worst luck in the world with most things, at least he could claim he had a great friend in Meg.

The ride into Bellbird Valley itself was short. Warm spring sunshine met Castiel’s upturned face as he parked the golf cart in front of Bobby’s hardware store. The breeze that whipped at his trench coat as he disembarked was soft and pleasant, and carried the soft smell of spring blooms from the florist just up the street. Castiel found himself humming as he browsed the hardware store, grabbing some long nails for the loose floorboards and a hammer that the top didn’t constantly fly off of. After a few minutes chatting with Bobby and being silently assessed by Rufus, Castiel packed his purchases into his reusable cotton bag and stepped back out onto the street, smiling.

The town, he decided, was a nice place. Even if it wasn’t quite as Instagram-perfect as the dumb, city assumptions he’d formulated before he actually come here were, it was still pretty cute, he decided. As long as you ignored the more run-down buildings, and the weird dude in the trashed RV behind the Roadhouse Café, and the total lack of amenities.

The people, though, he was finding to be quite lovely.

“Good morning, Claire,” Castiel called as he entered the Roadhouse Café, the bell jingling overhead. He’d decided to walk up the street from Bobby’s rather than move the golf cart, and sit here for a few minutes to enjoy his morning coffee.

The brightly lit café was fairly empty, only two other locals sitting at the Formica tables sipping their coffees. Castiel didn’t believe they’d ever spoken, but both of them nodded and greeted him anyway. He was sure that one was Liz, the lady who delivered his mail—but he merely smiled, paralyzed at the mere thought of getting her name wrong. 

If he did that, somebody was sure to tell somebody who would tell somebody else, and somehow it’d probably end up with Dean laughing at him. 

“Castiel!” Claire greeted him warmly, looking happy to see him—she really must have been, he decided, as she failed to use a teasing nickname. “Glad you’re feeling better, old man.” Ahh, there it was.

“I am, much better—and a lot of that is thanks to you two,” he said, looking over to Kaia as she came out from the kitchen bearing a tray of fresh pastries. “Specifically, your fiancée’s magical soup.”

Kaia gave a soft laugh. “It’s my grandmother’s old recipe—I’ll give it to you. And here, have one of these on me. You need to build your strength back up after being sick.” She selected a sweet almond croissant from her tray and slid it onto a plate, winking at Castiel before she headed back into her fabulous-smelling kitchen.

Castiel called out his thanks, cooing down at the croissant eagerly. After being sick for so long, a soft, warm pastry smelled amazing.

“Back to working on the Bellbird, then?” Claire asked, indicating the hammer that poked from the corner of Castiel’s bag while she began to pour his coffee.

“Yes, back to it.”

“The sink all good since Dean fixed it?”

“It’s perfect, much better than my attempts. I, uh, texted Dean, actually, to see how much I could pay him for his work on the sink, and for fixing my front door,” Castiel confessed.

“Oh,” said Claire, in a slightly strange tone. Seeing that Castiel had his pastry plate in one hand and his bag of tools and nails in the other, Claire carried his coffee over to one of the small tables for him, not far from the register. “And what did Dean say about that?”

“Nothing,” Castiel said, frowning as he lowered himself into the tiny booth seat. “He didn’t text me back at all.”

“Hmm,” Claire said neutrally. Her tone immediately brought Castiel’s attention up from his delicately sugared croissant. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

She raised a finger before quickly taking her jug of coffee to top up the other two patrons, exchanging quick words with them before she came back to the counter. Dusting off her hands with a cloth, she then made her way over to Castiel, plopping herself down in the booth opposite him.

“I doubt you’ll get any response from Dean about paying him for what he did,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Knowing him, he was probably mildly offended that you’d want to pay him.”

Castiel blinked, abandoning his fluffy pastry for a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend him! He provided a service, is all, and it’s not like we’ve known each other long or even really—”

“Cas,” Claire interrupted, looking terribly amused. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Hasselhoff’s a grump but I doubt he’ll make a big deal of it if you don’t bring it up again.”

“Good,” Castiel said quietly, looping his fingers through his coffee mug before he carried on. “Though it does pose a problem, as I’d like to try and hire him to do some work on the farm. I don’t know how much I could really afford for him to do, though. There’s a lot.”

Claire shrugged. “I’m sure Dean’d do it, even if you can’t pay upfront. He’d probably just tell you to pay him later when you sell it.”

“That’s not—” Castiel cut off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not comfortable with that, Claire. I realize things work differently, out here in Bellbird Valley. Or at least, I’m starting to realize that. But I have to do this on my own.”

Claire’s brow crinkled in question, and her dark-purple painted lips parted, so Castiel went ahead before she asked.

“Before I moved here, I was a passenger in my own life. I was stuck in this horrible rut that I didn’t even know I’d been in, and I didn’t even realize that I was too scared to do something different than what everyone expected of me until I ended up here.” Castiel gave Claire a wry smile as he realized how true his words felt at as he spoke them. “I have to prove to all of those people—and to myself—that I can do this, Claire.”

“You’re stubborn,” Claire said. To Castiel it felt fond, and he couldn’t help but smile back at her before she continued, “But as for Dean…have you thought of just seeing if he’s interested in helping with Bellbird on his own terms? He’s got his own reasons, believe me, for not wanting that farm to fall apart.”

Castiel tilted his head in question.

“More of a business proposition, maybe. A cut of the profits, or some kind of bonus at the end?”

“Why would Dean do something like that, with me? He doesn’t know me that well at all,” Castiel argued. “I don’t think he likes me much, for sure.”

Claire laughed, then, pushing herself up from the table, her hands still resting on the edge of it. “Oh no, Cas. I think,” she said quietly, her tone secretive and accented with a corny wink, “that Bellbird Valley’s most eligible bachelor might be quite keen on you.”

Castiel could feel himself flushing as he let out a small noise of protest, but Claire merely continued to grin. She reached across the table, tugging Castiel’s half-empty cup from his fingers. “Let me top up your coffee,” she said, “and give that a second to sink in there, huh?”

She had to be wrong, Castiel considered as Claire moved off to the counter. He’d humiliated himself in front of Dean so many times now, Dean probably thought of him as a viable source of entertainment. Hell, he should start selling tickets. But he didn’t think Dean saw him like _that._ Dean hadn’t even said he was into men—Claire had told him that. Yes, Dean was flirty, but that seemed to just be a default setting on his personality rather than anything genuine. Or so Castiel thought.

Dean was beautiful. And clearly talented, kind, well-loved in Bellbird Valley. He was out of Castiel’s league.

“Hey, Sam.” Claire’s voice broke Castiel’s train of thought as the door jangled, and the dressed-down attorney ducked his way inside.

“Morning, Claire!” he called back, before dipping his head at the two other patrons. “Liz, Simon, and Castiel!”

Castiel smiled up at Sam, who he was pleased to find sounded genuinely happy to find him here.

“You’re looking better. Mind if I sit? I was just going to grab some tea.”

“Of course,” Castiel said, reaching to take his freshly refilled coffee back from Claire. “Some company would be nice, at least it’d stop me from bothering Claire.”

“Oh, don’t worry, gramps,” Claire said, grinning as she reached across to ruffle Castiel’s hair. “I never mind babysitting the old folk. And anyway, gossiping about Dean is always fun.” She turned to Sam, nodding her head toward the register before she said, “Usual?”

Castiel took a moment to wonder how everyone here had a “usual”. He’d never been to a place small enough—or been memorable enough, he supposed—to have a “usual” anywhere.

“Yeah, please, kid,” Sam said warmly, before turning to look back at Castiel. He raised both eyebrows. “Gossiping about my brother?”

“So, I was right in assuming he was your brother,” Castiel noted. “I realized you had the same last name, but I didn’t know exactly how you were related.”

“Yeah, Dean’s my big brother. Almost raised me, really, since he was fifteen.”

Castiel blinked, unsure how to respond.

“Kind of forgot that you probably don’t know all of our tragic backstories,” Sam said, light and teasing as he leaned back to make space for Claire to place a mug of steaming hot tea in front of him. It smelled like apples and jasmine. “Small towns, everyone just knows everyone. It’s gotta be hard to come in from the outside, totally new.”

Nodding, Castiel fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug. “It’s strange. I’m not used to strangers being interested in me. In San Francisco, no one even looks at each other most of the time. I didn’t know my neighbors’ names. And for a big city, San Fran is pretty friendly.”

“Yeah, I know how it is,” Sam agreed, stirring his tea. “It was the same in Stanford. It was…kind of a relief, honestly, after growing up here.”

“You’re a bit more private?”

“Not so much that,” Sam explained, pausing to take a sip of his tea, blowing cool air across the steaming top and driving a puff of the sweet scent in Castiel’s direction. “Reputation follows you, and here, it takes years for it to change.”

There was a long pause while Sam gathered his thoughts, or perhaps worked out if he was going to say anything more at all. Castiel stayed quiet, waiting, though he gave Sam a small, understanding smile.

“We lost my mom when I was eleven,” Sam explained after a larger gulp of tea. “Dean was fifteen. She died in a house fire, and our dad never got over it. Drank a lot. He only made it a few years longer than she did, but lucky Dean was eighteen by then, so he could take care of us, legally. I got in a lot of trouble, though, at school; did a lot of dumb stuff. Not that Dean didn’t, too, but he was always the one dragging me out of the worst stuff.”

For a moment, the sound of Liz and Simon’s clanking plates as they dug into their hot breakfasts filled the air, before Castiel realized that he should say…something, at least. Though he had no idea what someone could possibly say to hearing all of that. Clearing his throat, he offered Sam a smile. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sam. That’s a lot for kids to deal with.”

Sam shrugged, smiling easily. “It’s fine. I came back from Stanford and people mostly forgot, or at least realized I grew up. It was harder for Dean, he never left.”

“Well, he seems pretty well-liked around here now,” Castiel offered, pressing his forefinger down into his plate to coax up every last flaky crumb of Kaia’s amazing, buttery croissant. “People are pretty quick to jump in and announce he’s Bellbird Valley’s most eligible bachelor.”

Sam gave Castiel an odd little smile, regarding him for a long minute. His fingers played almost nervously with the edges of his teacup, and he looked thoughtful, as if trying to decide whether to say anything else or leave the revelations as they were. It took a long moment, but eventually he spoke up, soft and sad.

“Anyone tell you yet that Dean was engaged?”

Castiel sat back in his seat, surprised. “No. They certainly make it sound like he’s very, very single.” He took a moment to squint askance at Claire, who was hovering far too innocently close by.

“ _Was_ engaged. As in, not anymore.”

“Oh.” Castiel grimaced slightly. “Sorry. What happened?”

“Well, that’s Dean’s tale to tell. She passed away, though. They were young and happy, and he lost everything—her, and the kid, and since then…” Sam paused, clicking his nail against the edge of his cup almost sadly. “Well, since then he hasn’t dated at all. I mean, he’ll disappear off to the city now and again for a night or two, he’s no hermit. But he hasn’t let anyone in for a long time.”

“So that’s what all the deflective humor is about,” Castiel said quietly, dropping his eyes down to his near-empty coffee cup. “And your mom… That’s why he volunteers at the fire station?”

“Yeah,” Sam said softly. “Dean’s…broken, honestly, though he’d kill me for saying it. But he’s a good guy, and he cares about his family, his friends, his community, a lot.”

Claire appeared at the side of the table and lowered a leafy, egg-white omelet down in front of Sam, along with a pepper shaker. “Here you go, Sam. Did you want anything else, Castiel? Are you going to sit with Sam for a while?”

“Yeah, have breakfast with me,” Sam offered before Castiel could answer. “My wife is out of town visiting my in-laws, so some company would be nice. And you did promise to tell me all about your plans for Bellbird Valley Farm.”

Castiel smiled, looking up at Claire. “Alright, then. I’ll have—”

“Let me guess,” Claire said with a grin. “Your usual, too. Toast, avocado slices, scrambled eggs.”

Chuckling, Castiel nodded and waved her on before turning back to Sam. Realizing that he was going to have breakfast with his friend and that, for the first time in his life, he had a “usual” somewhere, he couldn’t help a small grin pulling at him.

“What?” Sam asked, smiling curiously.

“Bellbird Valley might not be that bad,” Castiel allowed.

***

**Castiel:** Hello, Dean. This is Castiel, again. I wanted to apologize if I offended you before, by offering to pay for your kindness. I did not intend to.

 **Dean:** its ok. so, were all good, then? you forgive me for laughing at your dildo escapades?

 **Castiel:** We’re good, yes.

 **Castiel:** And I will begrudgingly admit that was quite funny.

 **Dean:** dude, it was fucking hilarious

 **Dean:** funniest thing to happen to me in years

 **Dean:** that and every other interaction we’ve had since you moved here, honestly. you’re kind of a disaster, dude

 **Castiel:** I’m aware.

 **Castiel:** I wanted to ask if you would consider doing some more work on the farm. Paid work. There are major structural issues that I don’t think I could handle myself.

 **Castiel:** But there’s a lot of work, and I’d need you to price up for me what I could even afford to do.

 **Dean:** i dunno, cas

 **Castiel** : If you’d rather not, I understand. I know I haven’t treated you the most fairly, either, and I’d like to apologize for that. It’s not your fault I’ve been so erratic and moody.

 **Dean:** yeah well. its fine. whose fault is it? should i be setting the town mob on someone

 **Castiel:** No one you know, I assure you.

 **Dean:** alright. and i’ll think about the farm. k?

 **Castiel:** Thank you, Dean. Just let me know.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean had not let Castiel know. In fact, it had been four days since he’d sent Dean those text messages after leaving the Roadhouse Café, and Castiel hadn’t heard a peep from him. It was Saturday morning, and Castiel had resigned himself to having to pay for a contractor to come out from Kansas City or Wichita to assess his dump of a future-inn. If he was also a little disappointed that it seemed Dean didn’t want to do the work for him…well, that was Castiel’s own problem.

During their breakfast chat at the Roadhouse, Sam had let Castiel know that all of the sale documents for the farm were depressingly regular. Castiel really wanted to make Crowley into an even worse villain in his mind—he just didn’t like the guy, much—but it seemed that, unfortunately for Cas, the sale was perfectly legal So, fixing up the farm on his own dime was the only option.

He was going to need a lot more dimes. For now, he’d live on what was left of his savings, but in a few months… Castiel shook his head. There was no point focusing on that until he knew more about the costs for the inn. 

Fatback had made himself a kind of nest in the corner of the living room, a small pile made of the curtains from the formal dining room (that Castiel had now put back up on the window  _ four _ times) and various pillows from the moth-eaten couches. He seemed to like to drag them all into a big pile, then toss them around with his snout before he’d settle down to take a nap in the corner. Castiel peered through the living room door, unsurprised to see him sprawled there on his side in the patch of sun that shone through the exposed window.

“I’m heading off into town, Fatback,” Castiel said conversationally, before catching himself. When had he started chatting to the pig as if it was a pet? He shook his head; clearly he needed more human interaction. Narrowing his eyes, he raised a finger to point threateningly at Fatback. “Don’t you chew anything while I’m gone.”

Fatback raised his head to regard Castiel and stared him down menacingly.

“I mean it.”

“Oink,” Fatback grumbled, flopping his head back down onto his forelegs.

Sighing in pre-defeat, Castiel headed out of the front door and off to the golf cart. He’d shunned his usual shirt and dress pants (because yes, maybe Claire’s comments about his dress sense making him look fifty were getting a little old) and he’d embraced the warm, early summer day by donning a short-sleeved navy shirt over the only pair of jeans he had remaining that weren’t covered in paint or grime from Bellbird.

Today was Bellbird Valley’s summer festival. Sam had told Castiel all about it when they’d had breakfast at the Roadhouse Café, and Kaia had made sure to sweetly remind Castiel about it every day since when he’d picked up his coffee. So, Castiel thought, it would be rather remiss of him not to go.

Plus, there was the chance that Dean would be there.

Castiel didn’t want to  _ pester _ Dean, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up on having the handsome handyman assess the Bellbird just yet. Maybe if he could find him at the festival, try apologizing again, he figured, he might be able to persuade him to take a look and consider something like Claire had suggested; a partnership, or pay upon sale. Dean said he’d forgiven their awkward start, but after his silence when Castiel had asked about the farm, Castiel wasn’t so sure.

Finding somewhere to park the golf cart took a moment, as Bellbird Valley had exactly zero parking lots other than the curb spaces along Main Street and the small area that belonged to the Roadhouse. It didn’t seem to bother people though; Castiel noted with amusement that they just parked on the verges and in fields, and no one ever seemed to complain about it. He guessed parking enforcement wasn’t a thing this far out.

As Castiel hopped off his golf cart and smoothed out his jeans, Bobby and Rufus appeared, walking up toward the cleared field near the tiny church which had been appropriated for the festival.

“Mornin’, Castiel,” Bobby said, as gruff as always. “Glad to see you getting into the community spirit, boy.”

“Hello, Bobby, Rufus,” Castiel nodded his head to them both. “It seems like the festival is the big event for the summer around here. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Bobby nodded approvingly. “Well, before y’go home later, that fancy gray paint you ordered came in. All-natural stuff, just like you wanted. Oh, and I had a poke around in the scrapyard back at the house—I’ve got a few bits that might match up to that old wood burner of yours in the kitchen. Might be able to get ‘er fixed up. You can come and look at ‘em one evening after the store closes.”

Castiel wasn’t even surprised that Bobby somehow knew what the wood-burning stove in the farmhouse kitchen looked like. “Thank you, Bobby. That’s very kind of you.”

“They’ll be heavy,” Rufus rumbled. “Should get Dean to bring them over in our truck.” It was the most that Castiel had ever heard Rufus say.

“Oh,” Castiel said, making sure to smile politely at Rufus as he answered, “I don’t know, I’m not sure if Dean would want to help. Though he might be more inclined to help with the farm if I’m using all that old-fashioned stuff that he likes rather than replacing with new.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow, sticking his hands in the pocket of his puffy vest—that he seemed to wear no matter what the weather said—and snorting inelegantly as they walked toward where the festival had been set up. “Dean’s wavering between wanting to help out a pretty newcomer and being reluctant to replace anything in the farm with newer stuff ain’t anything to do with your choices of décor boy, that much is for sure.”

Rufus gave a solemn nod of agreement.

Castiel wasn’t quite sure what Bobby meant by that, but before he could ask him for more information, Sam Winchester bounded over from the entrance to the festival.

“Come on in! Bobby, Rufus, Castiel,” Sam greeted them all in turn. “The festival is great this year, Eileen and the whole committee really went all out.”

Dressed down in jeans and a thin plaid shirt, Sam looked relaxed and comfortable as he led them on into the event.

The field had been set up with lots of tables, a few small rides for the little ones, and several large tents for events. Colorful bunting hung everywhere, and the smell of fresh donuts hung heavy in the air. Castiel’s stomach immediately informed him that he hadn’t eaten a warm donut since he left San Francisco, and he needed to get on that immediately.

Sam, Bobby, and Rufus stuck to Castiel’s side, exploring the various vendors’ tables of crafts and treats. They were good company, and Castiel found himself laughing and enjoying himself more than he expected; he could have sworn he even saw Rufus smile once or twice. As they approached the main tent for the announcement of some prodigious vegetable-related award, Castiel turned to Sam, swallowing down a chunk of delicious, sugary, apple donut.

“I’m surprised we haven’t seen your brother here.”

“Oh, he’s here,” Sam responded, a wicked grin across his face that Castiel didn’t quite understand. “In fact, that should probably be our next stop, don’t you think, Bobby?”

Bobby huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Wouldn’t miss it. Been warming up my throwing arm all week.”

“Uh…” Castiel couldn’t help but raise both brows in question. “Throwing arm?”

“Come on,” Sam answered with a grin, pointing across to the other side of the field where the rides and big trucks were all parked. “They’ll be over there by the fire truck.”

Sam led the way as the small group marched over the grass, making a beeline for the big red fire truck that was parked next to the small, rickety tea cup ride. Two men and one woman in firefighting gear, with the top half of their coveralls unzipped and folded down in the heat, leaned against the side of the truck. They were taking it in turns to show children around Engine 1 and let them sit in it, and Castiel couldn’t help a small smile as he drew closer, watching them laugh and joke. He couldn’t see Dean, though.

Until they got to the  _ other _ side of the fire truck.

“Bellbird Valley Fire Department Dunk the Hunk Fundraiser!” a large banner proclaimed.

There was a tank of water set up, with a red bullseye target to hit. An excited red-headed woman held a bucket of balls and collected bills from the small crowd of people—mostly middle-aged, giggly women, Castiel noted—who were gathered around hoping to get a firefighter wet.

Well.

Dean sat in a plastic chair suspended above the tank. His posture was relaxed and casual, his exposed forearms leaning on his thighs with his fingers knotted together between his knees, grinning out at the crowd. He wore his uniform—and Castiel would have sworn to a jury that he never had a uniform kink until that very moment—and, like the firefighters around the other side of the truck, he’d unzipped it in the heat. The heavy, black coveralls were pushed down to his waist, exposing a really tight white t-shirt beneath. It seemed to be having some trouble containing Dean’s biceps.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean called, causing Castiel’s eyes to jerk upward from the man’s arms.

Resting his gaze on Dean’s golden, freckled face in the sun wasn’t helping, though. He had his helmet off, his sandy hair mussed up attractively and his green eyes glinting in the bright sun. “Hello, Dean,” Castiel choked out, clearing his throat and desperately trying not to make a fool of himself.

A subtle elbow in his ribs brought Castiel’s eyes across to Sam’s tiny smirk. So much for not embarrassing himself. “How about we go first, then you can meet up with us at the judging tent after?” Sam said.

Castiel managed to nod without any further incident. Sure, everyone knew how ungodly attractive Dean was, that much was clear—but Castiel didn’t need to be displaying his drooling to the whole town.

He’d keep that for later, at home, alone.

Sam had good aim but couldn’t quite manage to knock his brother out of his seat, much to his chagrin. Rufus and Bobby both took laughing tries, but by the end of it Dean was still dry, kicking his feet and calling out off-color jokes about their arm muscles and aim.

Most of the little crowd had cleared away by then, and when Sam, Bobby, and Rufus headed off after their throws, only Castiel and a couple of other folks remained.

Castiel produced a crisp twenty-dollar note from his wallet, determined, and handed the petite redhead his phone and keys along with it.

“Glad to see you out here today,” Dean said conversationally as Castiel approached the wet, slippery edge of the tank, several balls in hand.

Castiel gave him a small smile, not really sure what to say. So, of course, his mouth opened and he blundered ahead with, “You never got back to me. About the farm.”

Dean’s lips parted but then closed again, his eyes dropping. “Yeah, uh, I know.”

“So, is that a no?” Castiel asked, twisting one of the balls in between his palms. “Because you could have just said so, if that’s the case.”

“It’s not a no, but not quite a yes, either,” Dean conceded.

Castiel frowned slightly. “What you’re unsure about…is it the farm? Or me?” he asked bluntly, stilling his hands.

Dean blinked in surprise. “Dude, no! It’s not you—and it’s not even the farm, either, not really. I love that place, I just want to see it cared for again. I really do.”

“Then,” Castiel said decisively, taking a breath, “partner with me on it. Work on the farm, restore it, get to have a say in how it goes.”

Mouth hanging open slightly, it took Dean a moment to respond. “Partner on it. You want to work together to turn Bellbird Valley Farm into an inn.”

Well, that wasn’t a  _ no _ , Castiel decided. So, he nodded firmly, standing his ground, and pulled his arm back ready to throw. “Twenty percent,” he offered, letting loose his first ball—a miss.

“No way, buddy,” Dean countered. “Fifty.”

Castiel threw his next ball—another miss. “Twenty-five,” he answered, sliding his last ball into his palm and lining up to the target.

“Thirty,” Dean said.

Castiel focused only on the target, letting loose his final chance. The hard ball whipped through the air, meeting the target dead-center with a satisfying  _ CRACK! _

“You— _ Ahhhh! _ ” Dean yelled out comically, the chair tipping instantly forward and dunking him, coveralls and all, into the tank of water below.

“JESUS THAT’S COLD!” Dean came up screeching, to the sound of clapping and cheering from the folks still hanging around nearby.

Castiel couldn’t help but give Dean a smug, satisfied grin. “Shame,” he said. He did feel a little bad for Dean, though, as he waded his way to the edge of the tank, the water half-way up his stomach. Castiel reached forward, moving up the steps that led up to the lip of the tank on the outside and offering his hand out to Dean. A small gesture of reconciliation.

Dean shook his head like a dog, flicking water out of his eyes and hair. He was grinning, though, at least, as he took Castiel’s hand. “Thirty percent?” Dean echoed.

“Thirty,” Castiel repeated, desperately trying not to stare at the way that Dean’s soaked, white shirt clung to his body, entirely see-through. He could practically count Dean’s freckles through it.

“Then you have a deal,” Dean said.

Castiel only had a split-second to register Dean’s wicked grin before he tightened his grip on Castiel’s hand and yanked him forward into the water, sending up a massive splash that spilled out over the edges of the tank.

When Castiel came back up he was gasping and shaking—Dean was right, it was  _ freezing _ —but he couldn’t help laughing a little too as Dean grinned guiltily, reaching out to grab his biceps and steady him.

“Sorry,” Dean said, clearly no such thing. “I couldn’t resist.”

“You are a pain in my ass, Dean Winchester,” Castiel panted, gripping Dean back in turn before reaching up to push his wet hair out of his face.

“I think I’m adorable,” Dean countered with a shit-eating grin.

Castiel could only roll his eyes. “I have no spare clothes and I drove here on a golf cart,” he pointed out.

“Don’t worry,” Dean said, helping Castiel up onto the steps and carefully down them before he reached out, slinging his arm around Castiel’s shoulders with a wet  _ splat.  _ “I’ve got spare clothes enough for us both on the truck. And now I’ve gotten soaked, it’s Benny’s turn, so I’ll give you a ride home— _ partner. _ ”

Castiel let out a tiny, defeated sigh. “I wanted more donuts.”

It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes, shoving Castiel lightly toward the fire truck where a tall, burly blond guy was waiting with towels and clothes. “Fine, my treat. But get sugar in my car and the whole thing is off.”

***

“OINK!”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Castiel grumbled. The pig seemed to have an issue with Dean honking his horn out front to let Castiel know he was here to pick him up.

It was early Monday evening, two days after the summer festival, and Dean had called that morning. Apparently, Bobby had spoken to him about heading out to the salvage yard, to see what they could use for the farm.

Castiel had never been to the salvage yard before. It was just outside of town, and he only knew it existed because whenever Dean wasn’t wearing a work shirt that said  _ Singer’s Hardware  _ on it somewhere, he was wearing one that said  _ Singer Salvage.  _ Bobby had explained that it was more hobby than income, and that he and Rufus lived on site so it was open whenever they felt like it.

Secretly, Castiel thought that sounded like an insane way to run a business, but who was he to talk—his business plan included one of the downstairs guest bedrooms being permanently assigned to a semi-domesticated porker.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said brightly as he leaned across the bench seat of his gleaming muscle car. How the thing was always perfect despite all the mud around here, Castiel just couldn’t work out. Dean raised an eyebrow at Castiel’s appearance. “Productive day?”

With a small sigh, Castiel wiped feebly at the front of his t-shirt (his very own  _ Singer’s Hardware _ shirt, which had been thrown at him somewhat rudely by Rufus when he’d turned up wearing a dress shirt to pick up new boards for the porch). It was covered in soot; there may have been a few smudges of it here and there on his face still, too. “I had a disagreement with the living room fireplace,” he answered primly.

Dean gave a small snort. “Are there any inanimate objects in that farmhouse that you do get along with?”

“I have a fairly good relationship with my new mattress.”

“New one, huh?”

“Memory foam,” Castiel said proudly. “I couldn’t quite shake the feeling someone or something probably died on the other one.”

“Wise,” said Dean strangely solemnly, nodding. Before he pulled out of the overgrown front gardens of the farm, he reached into the back seat and dragged a plastic grocery bag over to the front, tossing it carelessly into Castiel’s lap. “Here. I drove up to Topeka to stop by Sam’s main office this morning.”

Castiel blinked down at the bag, not quite understanding how that explanation covered the appearance of a dozen artisan donuts, but not about to complain. “You got these for me?”

Dean shrugged noncommittally. “Seemed like you liked ‘em, the other day. At the festival, I mean.”

With a small smile, Castiel pulled the first donut out of the paper bag they’d been wrapped in, hidden within the grocery plastic. It had been really kind of Dean, so he bit down his complaint about the resources wasted by double-bagging the donuts. “I’m just surprised you remembered. Thank you.”

Dean’s face was unreadable, and he kept his eyes on the bumpy driveway (or vague parting in the weeds, however it should be identified) and on making sure Baby’s suspension forgave him for the short journey.

The donuts were, if anything, even better than the ones he’d eaten at the festival.

Dean shifted awkwardly in the driver’s seat as Castiel moaned around his sweet, creamy donut. They were made fresh and sweet and sticky, and the fluffy dough was the best thing Castiel had tasted in the few weeks he’d already been in Bellbird Valley.

“These make me very happy,” he announced stickily.

“Glad they’re good,” Dean noted dryly, his eyes on the tarmac as he swung the sexy black Impala—"Baby”, Dean had introduced her as last weekend—on to the road itself. “So, you got any idea what specific stuff you’re looking for at the salvage yard?”

“Bobby said he thought he had some parts that would help with the wood burner in the kitchen, but other than that, no idea. Most of the things I have on my plans for the inn were a lot newer and more energy-efficient than just restoring the old junk.”

Dean’s face twisted up into a little scowl, but he didn’t say anything else for a few miles. Turning them off into a twisting sideroad, Dean pointed up ahead to a modest white clapboard house, set amongst several acres of rusting cars, machinery, barns, and what could only be piles of unused building materials. “There he is.”

“Bobby lives here?”

“Him and Rufus. I think Bobby finds it comforting, oddly, having all this stuff around. He likes to tinker.”

Castiel gave a small hum of acknowledgment. As they approached, he began to see some order in the chaos; what looked like hunks of junk were piles organized by some kind of system that Castiel couldn’t work out but could see in action. The cars were parked in even spaces, giving room to move around, and the old bathtubs and bumpers and roofing tiles were all stacked by type. “He cares about this place,” Castiel noted.

“Of course he does,” said Dean, sounding somewhat defensive. “People don’t only care about shiny new stuff, you know. There are other types of value.”

Castiel could tell that it was a dig at him, but he couldn’t quite work out why. Before he could question it, though, Dean turned the corner around the front cab of an abandoned semi-truck, and the front porch of the white house came into view. It was cute, with flower planters and rocking chairs and a little table made from a whiskey barrel.

Rufus stuck his head out of the front door as they parked, nodding at them silently and calling back into the house for Bobby. Castiel followed Dean as he made his way out of the car and around to the back of the house, where Bobby waited on a small walk-off porch that looked out over a neat vegetable garden and the rest of the salvage yard. Dean and Bobby greeted each other with slaps on the shoulder.

“You’re late,” Rufus called grumpily from the kitchen door.

Castiel smiled. He knew the crotchety, stoic old guy enough to recognize a greeting by now. “It’s good to see you too, Rufus,” he said warmly.

Rufus squinted at him, before giving a sharp nod and turning his attention to Bobby and Dean. “Want me to bring the truck around?”

A few minutes of shuffling keys and swapping parking spaces later, Castiel, Dean, and Bobby were walking amongst the aisles of scrap while Rufus very slowly drove a mud-splattered, rattley old Ford truck behind them.

“There’s some authentic early century porcelain sinks up here,” Bobby mused, directing them. It turned out he had an impressive memory catalog of almost every piece of junk on the acreage. “Is the one in the downstairs washroom still cracked? One of these might fit.”

“It is still cracked,” Castiel confirmed. “I’m a long way from being able to fix stuff like that. How easy would an old sink like that be to replumb with new pipes, though? I’m hoping to get a solar water heater put up as soon as the roof is fixed, and I think the pipes will need to be—”

“Why’ve you gotta change everything?” Dean interrupted grumpily, his brow creased. “There’s nothing wrong with that farm the way it is. Alright, it needs some repairs, but—”

Castiel sucked in a breath to snap back defensively at Dean, but he didn’t manage to get a single word out in time.

“Dean Winchester,” Bobby said sharply, to Castiel’s surprise. “That farm would’ve been up for demolition if Castiel hadn’t come here. That what you want?”

“No!” Dean protested immediately.

“Then shut the hell up, boy. I know you don’t like change,” Bobby’s voice softened noticeably, “and I know it’s hard to see the place Lisa grew up in bein’ torn apart. But it’s been long enough, Dean.”

Castiel’s held breath froze in his chest. Wait, the farm was—

“T-That’s—that’s not—” Dean spluttered, his angry, red face and jumbled words just further underlining that yes, yes it was.

“Dean,” Castiel began cautiously, “I didn’t—”

Dean shook his head almost viciously, and his lips parted to speak, but rather than follow through with it, he fixed Bobby with a glare before turning on his heels and stomping off through the aisles.

“Dean!” Castiel called out after him, Bobby’s hand on his arm preventing him from following.

“Let him go, son,” Bobby said quietly. “This is just how Dean is. He needs space and once he realizes he’s being an idiot, he’ll come back like nothing happened.”

In the distance, the warm, throaty rumble of the Impala’s engine pealed out of the salvage yard and echoed away up the twisting country street in the encroaching evening.

“Bobby, I’m so sorry,” Castiel said, turning to the older man with a small grimace. “I had no idea. Dean never said anything to me about having a connection to the farm like that.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Bobby huffed. “Before you came here, he hadn’t set foot in that place for years. Believe me, this is good for him.”

Castiel was still uneasy, but Rufus honked the horn of the dirty F-250 behind them, reminding him why they were there.

“Come on,” Bobby said. “Me and you can lift these sinks and such, then you can take the truck. We don’t use it much anyway, got the van from the store for day to day, so you keep ahold of it for a while. Stop driving that stupid golf cart around town.”

The offer took Castiel a minute to process, and he blinked heavily when it sunk in. “Me? You want me to borrow your truck, and take things from your yard, and… Thank you, Bobby, but why? You barely know me.”

Bobby shrugged one shoulder, his eternal puffy vest rustling. “Dean likes ya. That’s enough for me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel fully intended to sleep in and let himself feel like an idiot for pushing Dean into working on the farm when he’d clearly been reluctant for a _very good reason._ He felt like an ass. He could have been mad at Dean for the way he’d reacted and then left Castiel at Singer Salvage, but it hardly felt consequential.

Driving the manual transmission truck home by himself in the dark had been the kind of adventure that Castiel never wished to repeat, and at some point this morning he’d have to go and get its back wheels out of the weed-covered ditch in the front yard. Later, though, much later. After wallowing in bed and feeling like a jerk.

But, instead, Castiel found his eyes flying open just after eight a.m. What on Earth was that _noise?_

He lay still, waiting.

After only a few seconds, it happened again—a banging, scraping kind of noise with a squeaky quality to it that Castiel couldn’t place. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, and the soft cotton sheet that he’d thrown over himself to sleep—the air conditioning-less house far too hot at night for anything else—slipped down to pool around his stomach.

Castiel had grown used to being woken by Fatback-alarm, but the pig was nowhere to be seen. Clearly, Fatback had been there—everything that Castiel usually kept in the pile of crates beside the bed was turned out onto the floor, yanked about by a determined snout. But there was no sign of the culprit.

The noise came back again— _Thump! Scrape-scrape-squuuueaaak._

It had to be the pig, Castiel decided. What the hell was he doing? Slipping his feet out of bed, Castiel grabbed some sweatpants and an old Wu-Tang Clan t-shirt from next to his makeshift nightstand. He was halfway down the stairs before he registered that the noise was getting quieter.

Was it…on the roof? Castiel furrowed his brow and hurried on down the stairs, pausing by the doorway into the kitchen where he’d left his shoes the night before. He was shoving his feet into the heavy leather work boots, which he’d purchased begrudgingly from Bobby but had to admit had saved his toes on more than one occasion, when a glimpse of color from the corner of his eye drew his attention.

On the kitchen table, perched obviously in the middle, there was one of Mabel’s old cut crystal vases, packed with gorgeous blue wildflowers once more. Bright azure asters, tiny blue lobelias, and dayflowers formed a pillowy blue cloud around the taller stems of rocket larkspur. They were simple and beautiful, and they smelled like sunshine as Castiel stepped up to the table, lifting the vase up to his nose.

Castiel’s heart thrummed with warmth.

He’d given Dean a key to the front door after he’d agreed to partner on the farm, but he certainly hadn’t expected him to use it for surprise flower deliveries. _This must be his way of apologizing, again,_ Castiel thought, moving the flowers over to the window where they’d get more sun. He plucked one of the royal blue dayflowers out of the vase and spun it slowly between his forefinger and thumb as he made his way outside.

The noise was immediately explained. Directly outside, not far from the front door, was the bottom of a long ladder. Stepping down off the porch onto the grass, Castiel peered up at the roof to see a distinctive pair of jean-clad bowlegs leaning over the top of the ladder and onto the roof. A tool-belt hung from Dean’s hips, and after a few bangs and thuds, a little spray of dirt tumbled down from the edge of the shingles and onto the ground near Castiel’s feet.

Dean was re-securing and clearing out the gutters.

“Hey,” Castiel called, doing his best to come off _light_ rather than _awkward as fuck_ for a change, “watch where you’re throwing that!”

Leaning back just a little, Dean grinned down at him from the second floor. “Mornin’, sleeping beauty! This what time you city folk normally start work?”

“Very funny,” Castiel managed dryly. Any further retort fled his mind as he watched Dean come down the ladder—no careful step-by-step climb down, oh no, not for this guy.

Dean gripped the ladder with both hands and planted his feet on the outside of the metal uprights. With only a loose hand-hold and the ladder pressed into the arches of his feet, Dean slid down the ladder so quickly that Castiel gasped out loud.

When he hopped off onto the grass, Dean raised an eyebrow, his lazy grin quite amused. “No need for the pearl-clutching. I’m a fireman, remember? I know my way around a ladder.”

“Right,” Castiel said, realizing too late that he was flushing a little.

Stupid Dean and his ridiculous cocky, attractive face and dumb bowlegs that Castiel _so_ did not fantasize about having wrapped around him.

Dean’s eyes flicked down to the flower that Castiel had pinched in his hand, a glimmer of shyness to his smile that Castiel wasn’t used to seeing. Castiel had been about to thank Dean for the flowers, but he suddenly got the impression that might embarrass him—so instead he simply gave a warm smile and spun the flower slowly between his thumb and first finger.

Dean cleared his throat. “I, uh, know that getting the roof done is one of the more important jobs, so I figured that I’d take a quick look this morning and catalog what needs replacing and re-shingling while I get some of the debris off and the gutters fixed up.”

Castiel nodded. “You’re right, that’s a great start. I was going to take a look at the wood-burner in the kitchen this morning. I have no idea how to fix it but I can try and replace some of the parts with what’s in the truck.” He pointedly didn’t add, _You know, the ones Bobby gave me, that you stormed off and left me to bring home by myself._

“I already got them off the truck for you, actually,” Dean said somewhat sheepishly, pointing on down the porch to where a pile of iron parts waited. “And pulled the truck out of the ditch. I thought you’d be good at handling a stick.”

Castiel sensed that Dean was probably making a penis joke, and it was quickly confirmed by the roguish wink that followed. Luckily, Dean was spared an awkward retort from Castiel about handling _his_ stick by a loud OINK from the bushes beyond the porch.

Fatback emerged and sauntered past them both, disappearing into the house with a string of sticky weed trailing from his back foot. He didn’t so much as look at either of them.

Dean shook his head slowly at the pig before turning back to Castiel. “So you’ve never driven a manual?”

Castiel grimaced. “Not at all. Actually, in San Francisco I don’t even own a car.”

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed in shock and horror. “Oh,” he said.

Biting on the inside of his cheek so that he didn’t laugh in Dean’s face at how ridiculously shell-shocked he looked at such a revelation, Castiel gestured back to the kitchen. “I was going to test out the coffee maker I just had delivered and make some breakfast. Would you like something?”

Calming, Dean grinned. “I already ate, but I’ll never say no to coffee.”

Leaving Dean to get back up onto the roof, Castiel headed back into the farmhouse and began his morning. The kitchen wasn’t fantastic, particularly with the non-functional wood-burner that seemed as if it had once been the kitchen’s primary stove, but at least since Dean had fixed the sink and his friends had provided the microwave from Bobby’s, Castiel had been able to get by. Scrambled eggs in the microwave were a bit of an abomination, but they made more sense than driving to the Roadhouse Café for every single meal.

Once he’d eaten and made Dean and himself some coffee (and yes, maybe stared at Dean’s ass a little as he came down the ladder to collect said coffee), Castiel headed upstairs and changed into his _Singer’s Hardware_ shirt and some old sweat pants so that he could begin taking a look at the parts Bobby had provided. The pants were a little low in the waist and tight in the butt, washed far too many times, but they’d do just fine for the mess he was bound to make of himself while attempting this.

Castiel’s nemesis, the wood-burner, was sequestered in a red brick alcove in the middle of the back wall of the kitchen. In it’s hay day, it was probably a very pretty focal point for the room—Castiel could just picture it surrounded by hanging copper pans and bunches of drying herbs from the gardens outside. Now it was a giant hunk of rust that smelled like something had died inside.

Shuddering, Castiel quietly hoped that nothing had died inside.

Shaking his head, Castiel gave out a sigh. Then, he put some music on his phone, shoved in his earbuds, and went to work. Or at least, went to work as much as he could without a clue how to begin. There was a valve at the top that had rusted shut, he could see that much—so he went to town with a wire scrubber and some WD-40, slowly persuading it to ease open again. The door had a crack in the front, but that was okay because Bobby had found one, and even Castiel could work out how to pull the simple pins out of the hinges and attach the new door. It took him a while, sure, but he worked it out.

But, upon testing it, the flames still died within a minute, lacking oxygen. Castiel had taken out a piece of the piping that led up into the chimney and was cursing up the dark hole that remained, wondering what the hell was blocked up there, when he felt a hand touch his back.

Jumping a mile, Castiel spun around, releasing a cloud of soot from the wide pipe length that he held, and tugged his earbuds out of his ears.

“Woah!” said Dean, standing back and waving a hand to disperse the cloud. “I guess you didn’t hear me calling your name, huh.”

The sound of the Beastie Boys singing _Intergalactic_ spilled out into the air from the earbuds that dangled from Castiel’s neck, distant and tinny. “Sorry,” Castiel said. "I was trying to work out what’s blocking up this thing.”

Dean’s expression was somewhat skeptical, one eyebrow shifting fractionally upward as he regarded Castiel. Castiel couldn’t decide if he was judging his DIY skills or his music, but either made him a bit prickly.

“What?” Cas said. “You could do a better job?”

With a small eye roll, Dean stepped forward. He reached for the wrench that Castiel had used to remove the pipe, spinning it in his hand so that the handle pointed upward. He leaned into the stove nook, resting his weight on the edge of the iron wood burner so that he could look up into the dark space Castiel had revealed. “It’s probably just accumulated soot,” he said, beginning to poke around with the wrench, “or a bird’s nest or something.”

There was a clunk, and then a rattle, and then Dean gave an unmanly screech, withdrawing swiftly—but not swiftly enough.

With a huge, _poofing_ billow of soot, something rattled and fell down onto the top of the wood burner, before tumbling down to the floor. It looked like a bundle of twigs, dyed black.

Dean straightened up slowly, his face and shoulders entirely coated in thick, chunky carbon dust from the pipes and chimney. He had his eyes squeezed shut, keeping them that way as he grumpily stated, “Yup. Definitely a bird’s nest.”

Castiel’s hand slapped up across his mouth instantly, but a low chuckle escaped him even so.

“Not funny,” Dean muttered.

Quickly dropping his phone onto the kitchen counter, Castiel grabbed a couple of hand towels from the front of the cabinets and ran them hastily under the now perfectly functional kitchen tap. “Here,” Castiel said, struggling to sound sincere. “Keep your eyes shut.”

Carefully, Castiel wiped the dust away from Dean’s eyes so that he could open them, his spare hand curled around the side of Dean’s face to keep it steady. The black soot transferred to Castiel’s fingers. Once Castiel was done swiping the cloth gently across Dean’s eyelids, he said, “There you go. Should be able to open them without getting dust in your eyes.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, cautiously blinking his eyes open.

He looked like some kind of reverse raccoon. Castiel bit his lip in amusement. “So, a bird’s nest,” he said lightly.

“Yes,” replied Dean firmly, though Castiel could tell that he was struggling not to laugh. “Definitely a bird’s nest.”

Dean could have cleaned off the rest of his face by himself, but Castiel was already there, with the cloth already in hand, and he just…didn’t think. Didn’t want to, either, as he slowly revealed Dean’s twitching lips, fighting back a grin.

“You look ridiculous,” Castiel huffed out quietly.

“I’ll bet,” Dean agreed, finally laughing softly. He was staring right at Castiel as he cleaned his face, and it should have been unnerving, but it wasn’t. After another couple of minutes of careful wiping, rotating the wet cloth to find the quickly-shrinking clean, white spaces, Castiel pulled back.

“There we go,” he announced. “Back to looking like your usual smirking, cocky, underwear-model self.”

Dean’s bark of laughter was unexpected, but Castiel liked it. “Glad to know you think I look like a model, Cas,” Dean said, winking cheekily before he carried on, wiggling his eyebrows. “Does this mean I’ve got something going for me, at least?”

Castiel rolled his eyes hard. “No. You are still a jerk.”

Dean shoved playfully at Castiel’s chest, and they exchanged small grins. Castiel became suddenly aware of a shift in atmosphere in the kitchen, a playful charge that hadn’t been there before. He drew back further to put a little space between himself and Dean, before turning to wash the soot from his hands in the sink, dumping the wet towels into the bottom of it.

“So, what did you come in here to talk to me about?” Castiel asked, rubbing soap bubbles between his fingers from the old bar that he’d found in one of Mabel’s bathroom cupboards, along with at least thirty others, all sealed. Apparently, the old lady couldn’t resist a good sale down at the Dollar General.

Dean had grabbed the broom from the corner and was clearing the remains of the sooty bird’s nest from the floor. “I was just gonna let you know that I was heading down from the roof, it’s almost midday and it’s getting a little hot for my tastes up there. Figured I’d see if you wanted to grab some lunch together, and then maybe we could go over some of the plans you had for the inn.”

“Sounds great. We could head down to the Roadhouse? Maybe see what Claire is trying to poison us with today and get some of Kaia’s burgers,” Castiel suggested. He could help but smile, feeling much more positive now that maybe, just maybe, Dean might be on board with his ideas for the Bellbird.

“Alright,” Dean said, grinning cheerfully. “Let me just wash up quickly then, and I’ll drive. My treat.”

Castiel suspected that Dean just didn’t trust Castiel behind the wheel of the truck, but he said nothing, not wanting to spoil the tentative goodwill they were developing.

***

While Dean was initially resistant to many of Castiel’s ideas for Bellbird Valley Farm, the good feelings seemed to be sticking around. While they disagreed, they didn’t particularly argue over things for the next couple of weeks, thank goodness.

Instead, they developed an astonishingly crackling closeness that sent Castiel running from the room and into the shower more than once, embarrassed by how obvious his attraction must be to Dean. He tried not to stare, he really did. But, whenever he’d walk out of the front door to take Dean a beer while he worked in the yard, Castiel could hardly be blamed for the palpitations he developed at the sight of Dean’s shirtless, sweating frame. He’d walk up to the porch to take the bottle from Castiel, beads of moisture joining his freckles into pictures that Castiel wanted to memorize, and Castiel would have to gulp down the quietly gasped _“Wow,”_ that would fall from his lips every time.

Castiel wasn’t blind, after all.

If he caught Dean staring in return, more than once, he tried not to think about it too much. He still fully intended on leaving Bellbird Valley as soon as he got a chance, and even if he wasn’t, drooling noticeably over his business partner was probably not wise.

Summer was rolling on toward fall, the Bellbird Inn was beginning to take shape—despite Dean’s occasional protests that some of Castiel’s requests were “utter hippy bullshit.”

Even when Dean would say that, though, he invariably did whatever Castiel wanted a few days later.

They never mentioned it.

So, Dean’s reaction to Castiel’s graywater recycling system blueprint was a surprise.

Castiel was sat at the wooden center island in the kitchen—newly sanded down and oiled by Dean the week before, gleaming beautifully—unrolling the plans from the long tube they had been mailed in from California, thanks to an old business contact from Garrison Enterprises.

“What’s that?” Dean asked, his heavy work boots stomping across the tile as he moved into the kitchen from the hall. He was carrying a bucket of tile grout, and he was covered in white sticky streaks.

Shuffling the plans to the side so that Dean wouldn’t put his bucket on top of them, Castiel ran his hands across the smooth, thin paper. “These are the plans for the theoretical graywater recycling system that I had put together for the first eco-inn I that I pitched to my employer back in San Francisco. It was a similar size to here, so I’m hoping we can just adapt it.”

“Oh?” Dean said casually, a smirk detectable in his voice even as he had his back turned to Castiel, washing his hands. “And you know how to do that, huh?”

Castiel let out a sigh. “Fine. I’m hoping _you_ can just adapt it. I’ll paint the pipes a pretty color at the end.”

Dean was grinning as he turned around. He moved over to Castiel’s side of the island and leaned in to look at the blueprints. He was _close_ , one hand on the back of Castiel’s stool as he braced himself on the wooden countertop with the other. “Hmm,” he said.

Castiel stayed silent, bracing himself for the arguments and complaints about how silly and hippyish such a project was in the first place.

“Looks pretty good,” Dean said after a moment. “Won’t take that much adjusting, just a different route for the pipes to take into account the layout of the Bellbird.”

Castiel blinked in surprise. He turned his head, looking across at Dean as he leaned over Castiel’s shoulder, eyes still on the blueprints. He smelled soft and musky, like manual labor and sawdust and cut grass, and Castiel’s abdomen _simmered_ slowly like a watched pot. “You aren’t going to fight me on this?” Castiel choked out in confusion.

Their faces were only inches apart as Dean turned to look back at him. “Nah, why would I? Graywater recycling just makes sense,” Dean said, before adding slightly more softly, “and even if I didn’t like it, I’d still do it for you.”

There was a tiny, white fleck of grout tangled in Dean’s four-day stubble at the bolt of his jaw. Castiel desperately fought down the urge to reach up and dust it from his skin and press his lips to the place it had been.

Clearing his throat sharply, Castiel dragged his eyes back to the plans. “Right. Okay. Uh, what do we need to do first, then?”

“Well,” Dean said, finally pulling back out of Castiel’s space, “I’ll need to take some measurements, first. And I’ll need a bit more than your average measuring tape. I don’t have the tools here, but I do back at my place. I probably have some spare piping there too, leftover from a job that fell through over the winter—wanna ride with me and come check it out?”

Nodding, Castiel began to carefully roll his blueprint back up. “Alright. When do you want to go?”

“As soon as I’m done with this grouting in the second guest bathroom upstairs. But it’d go much faster if you helped.”

Castiel blinked a couple of times in surprise. “You want me to help,” he stated flatly.

“Too good to help?” Dean raised a brow pointedly, looking displeased.

“Not good enough, more like,” Castiel corrected. “Your work is always gorgeous, Dean. I’m sure to ruin it.”

Castiel didn’t miss the tiny, preening smile that Dean gave at the compliment, before shrugging and reaching across to grab his grout bucket again. “It’s grouting tiles, Cas…even you can manage that, surely.”

“Oh, don’t bet on it,” Castiel said dejectedly as he slid from his stool. “But of course, I’ll help.”

It only took a few minutes for Dean to show Castiel through how to trowel the grout into the gaps between the new tiles, and then run his wet finger along the join to smooth it out. They huddled together on the bathroom floor, shoulder to shoulder, as Dean repeated the motion a couple more times.

“There—got it?”

“Yes,” Castiel said solemnly. “I do believe I can actually do that.”

“Go ahead then,” Dean said, pointing to the next gap. “Fill ‘im up.”

There was a double entendre in there somewhere, Castiel knew, and he was fairly sure that Dean was making it, but he ignored him in favor of concentrating on his grouting. He really wanted to get it right. Okay, so maybe it was a little ridiculous that he cared a lot more about impressing Dean than he did about the actual tiles—but after their rocky and embarrassing start, Castiel desperately wanted Dean to think he was capable of _something._

With the little trowel that Dean handed him, Castiel pushed some of the white, sticky paste into the gap between the two tiles that Dean had indicated. He managed to get it in without too much mess, and then packed it down a little, using the side of the tool to scrape up most of the excess from the top. Then, as Dean had done, he licked his thumb and ran it along the join with careful, even pressure. It left the grout shiny and smooth, with no trowel marks or dents. Castiel smiled at it proudly.

“Perfect,” Dean said softly, sounding genuinely proud.

Castiel’s chest didn’t swell at hearing it, he told himself. It didn’t, it _didn’t._

Alright, so Castiel was a liar who wasn’t used to hearing praise or being told he’d done something right, and perhaps he did, maybe, just a little, desperately want to prove himself to the gorgeous, capable, funny asshole with the sexy bowlegs and the tragic backstory.

Ugh.

Castiel’s chest could damn well _stop it._

The grout left on Castiel’s thumb felt gross and sticky, and in desperately trying _not_ to feel some kind of way about Dean’s simple assessment of his efforts, Castiel found himself staring at it.

“What do I do with this?” he asked dumbly.

Dean looked across at Castiel’s thumb, sitting back on his heels next to him after inspecting the tile. “Oh, just wipe it on something,” Dean said with a shrug. “It’ll wash off.”

In retrospect, Castiel wasn’t sure what came over him. But somehow the feeling in his chest made him lightheaded and silly, and he found himself grinning and darting his hand forward, dabbing the grout onto the end of Dean’s nose.

“Hey!” Dean protested, taken too much by surprise to pull back in time and ending up with a chalky streak down his bridge, leading to the white blob that perched tremulously on the tip.

“You did say—”

Castiel didn’t have time to finish, because Dean’s large, grouty hand was coming straight for Castiel’s face. He shrieked and jerked his head back, but Dean was fast.

They devolved quickly into childish dodging and wrestling and tagging with streaks of white grout, until they were caught in a stalemate, Castiel on his back on the floor, Dean leaning above him with Castiel’s hands desperately pushing back against his biceps, preventing Dean from depositing a thick white streak on his cheek.

Flushed and laughing, Dean gazed down at Castiel. He couldn’t help but grin back up at him, feeling light and warm. He couldn’t help but be just the slightest bit disappointed as Dean pulled back, smiling more calmly, his hands held up in a gesture of placation.

“Truce?” Dean said breathlessly.

“Only if you admit that I won,” Castiel said, grinning as he pushed himself back up off the floor. He ended up sitting between Dean’s knees, closer than should have been comfortable, but reluctant to move.

Dean’s smile was closed-mouthed and softer than the situation deserved. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You win.”

They were frozen for a moment before Dean moved to stand, holding out his hand to help Castiel up. They both looked down at the streaks of grout covering the tiles—in all the wrong places—and exchanged suppressed, amused smiles.

“How about we finish this up _sensibly_ ,” Dean said pointedly, “and then head out to go get my tools for measuring the length of pipe we’ll need for the graywater recycling?”

Castiel nodded, smiling back across at Dean as he reached for the trowel again. “Perfect,” he said.

***

_“And if I claim to be a wise man_ ,” Dean sang shamelessly, loud and slightly off-key, his palms beating the steering wheel as an accent to his dramatic rendition of an old Kanas song, _“it surely means that I don’t know!”_

Castiel bit back a smile, dragging his gaze from where he’d been staring at Dean singing. He looked out of the window instead, taking in the verdant late-summer hedges and laden trees that lined the narrow, grassy roadways of Bellbird Valley.

“Oh, come on,” Dean protested. “You’ve gotta like this song. Everyone likes this song!”

“What makes you think that I don’t like it?”

“I’ve seen you, with your millions of hip-hop and rap CDs and your Wu-Tang Clan t-shirts, Cas—and you were most definitely playing the Beastie Boys in the kitchen a couple of weeks back,” Dean said.

“And I can’t like more than one thing?”

“Of course, you can.” Dean shrugged. “Most people don’t.”

“Just because I like listening to the music that I remember from high school doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate older songs. Or even something from this actual decade,” Castiel responded with a teasing glance. “Unlike some people.”

“Hey, I don’t _only_ appreciate classic rock, okay?” Dean grumbled with a grin that was only highlighted by the bright dappling of sunlight pouring through the windshield. “It just happens to be the best.”

“If you’re trying to tell me that AC/DC is catchier than Sir Mix-a-Lot, Dean, then you’re going to be wrong.”

That’s how Castiel and Dean ended up spending the final few miles of their drive to Dean’s house blaring _Baby Got Back_ at full volume from Castiel’s phone.

Dean, of course, knew every word.

 _“A lot of simps won’t like this song, ‘cause them punks like to hit it and quit it,”_ he sang at Castiel as he turned off the main road through Bellbird Valley and out further into the country. _“And I’d rather stay and play, ‘cause I’m long, and I’m strong, and I’m down to get the friction on…”_

Castiel couldn’t help his laughter, his cheeks aching from being pulled so wide. Dean’s grin broke through the lyrics until he couldn’t get them out anymore, and they both dissolved into hiccuping giggles.

Dean turned them down a long, winding driveway moments later, pulling Baby to a stop in front of an isolated, quiet house.

Although Castiel hadn’t put a ton of thought into what Dean’s house would look like, he certainly hadn’t expected it to look like _this._

The house was more like a cabin, really. Made of huge planks of dark wood, the beautiful home had two stories of wide, floor-to-ceiling windows and an angled roof, and it was wrapped entirely by a closed-in porch. A large garage took up the right side of the building, which didn’t surprise Castiel at all—Baby deserved the very best, in Dean’s eyes. Surrounded by gardens of brightly blooming annuals and rows of firs that Castiel thought might be homegrown Christmas trees, it was sunny and unique, every board looking loved and well-maintained.

Dean jumped out of Baby swiftly. He strode toward the house, searching on his car key loop for his front door key as he waved Castiel out of the Impala.

“Come on!” he called. “Might as well have a beer while I dig the tools and pipes out of the garage.”

Castiel followed on behind Dean, up onto the covered porch. Dean unlocked the door and pushed it open, before pocketing his keys again and saying, “Go on in and make yourself at home. Beer’s in the fridge. I’m just going to go find my laser measuring tool before we look at the pipes I have, and you can tell me if they meet your hippy standards.”

Letting out a small laugh where a month ago he would have been offended, Castiel nodded and stepped into the house. “Alright. I’ll open you a beer too.”

Dean’s kitchen turned out to be small, but neat. It had an impressively professional-looking gas stove, and cabinets made of dark, oiled wood. The refrigerator, a hulking steel beast, held little more than leftovers, burger patties, cheese, and half of an apple pie. It wasn’t the most balanced of diets, but Castiel smiled anyway, pulling two bottles of Margiekugels from the door. It only took a minute of rooting around in cabinets to find a bottle opener before he looked back to the fridge and realized that there was a magnetic one attached to the door.

Holding the two open beers, Castiel stepped out of the kitchen and found himself in a cozy living room. The bulk of it was taken up by a huge open fireplace, made of red bricks and dominating one whole wall. There were no overhead lights, just a couple of warm, glowing lamps here and there, illuminating soft brown leather couches and exposed brick walls. The walls were laden with art of almost every kind Castiel could think of; oil-painted landscapes, funny mid-century prints, newspaper cartoons, movie posters. There were knick-knacks and sculptures nestled against old books in low bookcases, and a heavy, dark-stained table constructed of reclaimed wooden beams.

Everything looked handmade; everything was beautiful.

Castiel stood in the middle of the room, his mouth hanging open slightly. The whole place was just so…surprising.

A noise in the doorway made Castiel whip around as if caught doing something he shouldn’t, but Dean was just leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, an oddly nervous smile on his face. He didn’t say anything.

“You built this house,” Castiel blurted out, not sure why it was such a revelation.

Dean reached out to take his beer from Castiel, peeling away from the door. He nodded slowly, taking a few more steps into the room. He lowered himself down to sit on the arm of the couch, resting his forearms from his knees before he quietly answered, “Yeah. Bobby, and Rufus, and the whole team helped, but…I built it for Lisa, before she died.”

Castiel was quiet, unsure, but he nodded.

“I figured someone in town probably spilled the beans.” Dean’s smile was sad and resigned.

Still not knowing what to say, Castiel took a long draw of his beer.

“I probably should have let it go years ago,” Dean said. “Moved out, let a family who loves this place take it over. It’s too big for just me, y’know?”

Castiel nodded dumbly.

“I used to think that staying here would keep me close to her, but…” Dean’s eyes traveled around the room, sliding over the art on the walls with an unhappy detachment that made Castiel’s chest ache to see. “The past few years, honestly, it just makes me miserable. I still have all my happy memories of her but being here in what should have been her house makes me feel alone.”

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel answered quietly, though he hadn’t been asked what he thought. “I bet she loved it.”

“She never got to see it finished,” Dean confessed. “She was sick. We never knew—she was so healthy. Used to teach yoga and stuff. By the time there were symptoms, it just…it was so quick.”

“Oh.” Castiel choked on air for a moment before, finally, his mouth came back online. “I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times, but…I’m so sorry, Dean. You were so young. She was.”

Dean nodded down at his beer. “Yeah,” he agreed dully. “I was raised not to whine about stuff but, damn, it never seemed fair. And Ben, he was way too young to lose his mom.”

“Was he…” _Yours_ seemed to blunt a word, so Castiel’s question hung in the air, unfinished.

“Biologically, no,” Dean answered, pausing to take a swig of his beer. “Lisa had him when she was in high school. But he was mine in every way that mattered.”

Castiel stood silently, but his question must have been in his eyes as he looked over at Dean, because Dean gave him a crooked, sad smile and an out-of-place shrug before he responded.

“His dad had money, connections. I never stood a chance.”

“‘I’m sorry’ seems like such a dumb thing to keep saying.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean nodded, his eyes trained down on his beer, though that didn’t stop Castiel from seeing the shiny glint to them in the lamplight. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to unload on you. It just kinda felt like time.”

Castiel gave Dean a small smile, stepping up to the couch to stand in front of him. “It’s fine, Dean. And you’re right, maybe it was. Sam, he told me that—well, he mentioned you’d been alone for a long time. It makes sense now.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes blinked heavily. “Most people don’t want to live with ghosts. I can’t blame them.”

When a single tear gleaned in the yellowy, dim light, Castiel couldn’t help but reach out. He was cautious, wrapping his arms around Dean carefully, giving Dean space to refuse. He pulled Dean into his chest where he sat on the arm of the chair before him. Dean let him, though, and for a brief moment, he buried his face in Castiel’s shirt.

It was nice.

Castiel gently tangled his fingers in the hair at the back of Dean’s head, holding him in the quiet. He let him just be.

He wanted to give him more, to try and make it _better_ , but he knew he couldn’t. With a growing buzzing in his chest, though, Castiel realized with full force that _he_ wanted to be the one to make it better. He wanted to show Dean how to be happy again, he wanted…

Dean’s arms came up and squeezed around Castiel in turn, briefly, before he pulled away. “Anyway,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed, “how about we go look at those pipes, huh?”


	8. Chapter 8

****

**> > Cassie, darling, pick up the phone. Let me apologize, so we can at least be friends. Please.**

Castiel stared down at the phone in his hand, blinking at the text message. It was from a different number than the one of Balthazar’s that he’d blocked weeks ago, but there was no doubt who it was from. His thumb hovered over the block option for a long moment, but eventually, he just shut his phone off.

Balthazar had been a big part of his life for so long. He was grotesquely self-centered, sure, but it hadn’t always been bad. Perhaps, Castiel considered, they could just part as friends.

A loud _OINK!_ Pulled Castiel from his reverie, and he shoved his phone into his back pocket.

“What do you want?” he said to Fatback, scowling.

The pig scowled back. “OINK.”

“Food?” Castiel hazarded a guess.

After eyeing Castiel thoughtfully for a minute, Fatback sauntered off out of the dining room, where Castiel had been painting the new trim that Dean had installed, and snuffled off down the hall.

With a sigh, Castiel stretched his arms up over his head, loosening his tight back muscles, and headed off to the kitchen. If he didn’t find something to entertain Fatback, he’d end up with snout-prints in his paint and missing paintbrushes that turned up halfway up the stairs or in the backyard, dripping fat droplets of _Opalescent Beige_ like breadcrumbs. He knew this well by now.

Rooting around in the cabinet under the microwave Bobby had donated, Castiel pulled out a few carrots from a bag he kept just for these situations. The half-wild beast turned up his nose at pig-pellets and didn’t like his vegetables refrigerated. He would steal fruit without shame, and if Castiel had bread in the house, he had approximately four hours to eat it and hide the crumbs before the pig stormed in and took what was left.

Fatback was a menace, but—to his utmost vexation—Castiel had become quite fond of him.

Armed with nutritious root veggies, Castiel went in search of the pig. He wasn’t—thank God—in the dining room with the paint. He didn’t seem to be in the hallway, and when Castiel stuck his head upstairs, all was silent.

Dean was outside, working on replacing the ground floor windows. Perhaps Fatback had gone to bother him instead.

Both hands full of carrots, Castiel opened the front door and the neat fly-screen that Dean had installed over it, and stepped out onto the porch.

“Dean?” he called. “Have you seen Fatback?”

“What?” came Dean’s muffled reply. “Can’t hear you—‘round here, living room window!”

Castiel walked around to the side of the house, braving the rotting porch boards so that he could avoid the muddy grass the previous night’s prolonged late-summer storm had left them with. Dean was standing close to the wall, closely examining the seal around the window he’d just replaced, giving the old living room—soon to become the guest’s common area of the Inn—a view down over the herb garden Castiel had planned.

Dean was shirtless, sweating in the summer heat, and for just a moment—though he’d deny it until his dying day, even if archangels themselves asked him about it at the gates—Castiel was so preoccupied by the freckled panes of tanned skin on display, that he forgot to remain conscious of where he was putting his feet.

Castiel cleared his throat distractedly. “I said, have you seen—"

_SNAP!_

It was a sudden sound; the sound of dry-rot cracking underfoot. It was closely followed by an unmanly shriek that burst from Castiel without permission as the planks he stood on shifted.

“Cas!” Dean dived forward as Castiel toppled backward, teetering on the edge of a large, jagged hole in the porch floor, a dark maw lined with broken wood teeth. Castiel was about to tumble into the throat, and his only possible landing would have been atop decades of trash and broken glass and nail-lined wood that stuffed the underside of the porch—but Dean had his arm, and sharply yanked him forward.

Castiel stumbled headlong back toward Dean, his weight swinging forward as he threw himself away from falling into the dangerous hole behind him. He crashed onward, smacking into Dean and sending them both tumbling to the floor.

The carrots flew everywhere, and Dean let out a high-pitched _“Oof!”_ as Castiel landed on top of him.

Immediately, Castiel was embarrassed, but he couldn’t move; Dean was still clinging on to him, both of them breathing heavily, eyes wide with shock.

“That was close,” Dean breathed out after another few seconds.

They were pressed together, Castiel could feel Dean’s breath on his lips. He swallowed harshly, nodding. “Yes. Thank you,” he said.

“No problem.” Dean grinned softly.

Still, neither of them moved, and Dean’s hot hands were resting at Castiel’s hips. Dean had a curl of sawdust clinging to his hair, entwined in the front where it pushed up from his forehead. Castiel lifted his hand from the floor where it rested beside Dean’s head, and gently picked the speck from his strands.

Dean’s eyes flicked to Castiel’s lips, slow and obvious, and Castiel’s breath caught in his throat.

They both leaned closer, Dean’s head rising from the floor as the very tip of Castiel’s nose brushed the side of Dean’s. That glorious anticipatory feeling _right before_ something was going to happen buzzed through Castiel, and then—

“OINK!”

God, Castiel had never hated that pig more. It screeched a mere three inches from their faces, all hot breath and absolute _glee_ at spotting a carrot on the other side of the porch. Fatback trampled across Dean and Castiel like they weren’t even there, drawing protesting “ _OOF!”_ sounds from them both as his poky porcine hooves made a beeline for the slightly wrinkly carrot.

Groaning, Castiel rolled off the top of Dean and onto the porch next to him, away from the hole. Embarrassed, he scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off.

“Fatback!” Dean said, rolling his head to the side away from Castiel, to look at Fatback while he chowed down happily a few feet away. “I thought we were friends, dude!”

Flushed, but in one piece and at least laughing, Castiel picked up another broken carrot from near his ankle and threw it at the pig. Fatback merely grunted happily as it bounced off his rump.

“Asshole,” Castiel muttered.

***

The cheery bell above the door to the Roadhouse was a familiar, almost soothing sound to Castiel these days. The burst of coffee scent that greeted him upon stepping inside was the only thing to start making him feel like a human being, some days.

“Mornin’,” greeted Liz, the quiet lady who delivered the mail.

“Mornin’,” said Alex, the young woman who cared for a couple of the older folks in the village.

It was comfortable and routine, and despite his initial resistance, Castiel had fallen into it. He’d begun to realize, with some discomfort, that he might actually _miss_ this when he found a buyer for the Inn and left.

“Coffee’s already on the table, Cas,” Claire called, harried and greasy and looking like she was having a terrible day.

“On your own this morning?” Castiel asked with a frown, walking up to his usual table close to the counter, where a perfectly brewed coconut milk drip was waiting for him in a white mug.

“Yeah,” Claire grumbled, swiping furiously at the countertop. “Kaia wasn’t feeling too good this morning, told her to stay in bed.”

“I hope she feels better soon,” Castiel said with a frown, remembering how kind she’d been when he’d caught the flu. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Just drink your coffee,” Claire said dismissively. “And don’t order anything besides eggs, because I can’t make it.”

Castiel snorted in amusement. “That’s a fair deal. Can I get a coffee to go, too, when I’m done with this one—and one for Dean?”

“Sure thing,” said Claire. “He’s back working at the Bellbird?”

Castiel nodded over his steaming, delicious coffee before taking a careful, hot sip. “Yes, he’s been working on it every spare minute that Bobby hasn’t needed him. We’re making a lot of progress.”

“Good,” Claire said, sounding genuinely happy. “It’s about time that old house felt loved again, and I think it’s good for Dean. You too, actually—you’ve got way less of a stick up your butt than when you arrived.”

“Hey!” Castiel complained, but Claire merely shrugged and headed off into the kitchen. He returned to his morning drink, savoring every sip. The coffee was mildly sweet and warm and perfect, just the way he loved it. Claire never got it wrong.

His content reverie was only disrupted when his phone began bouncing across the table. He almost let it ring out, recognizing the number, but finally—after going back and forth in his head so long he nearly missed it—Castiel picked up.

“Hello, Balthazar.”

“Cassie, darling! I’ve been so worried about you!”

“About me?” Castiel raised an eyebrow at his coffee, before leaning back in his seat and crossing his arm across his chest. “First time for everything, I suppose. Why?”

“You’re out there in the sticks! I spoke to my uncle Zachariah about that building you bought after Garrison and looked it up—it looks awful out there!”

“It’s not awful,” Castiel protested.

“It’s an hour to the nearest mall. You have to be joking.”

“Why are you calling?” Castiel couldn’t help but snap. Yes, Bellbird Valley was a long way from the fancy stores he was used to, and yes, he still hadn’t replaced his damned yoga mat, and yes, he would probably murder a fair few people in return for some really good sushi. But that wasn’t the _point._

“I miss you, Cassie,” Balthazar said. “You should come home.”

“I’m happy here,” Castiel said, choosing to ignore the other part.

“I was selfish, and I didn’t appreciate you.”

“Correct,” Castiel said, dryly. “I appreciate you saying it, Balth, but it doesn’t make a difference now, it’s too late. I don’t—” Castiel’s throat clicked as he said it aloud for the first time. “—I don’t even know if I want to come back to San Francisco, truly. And certainly not to you.”

“Cassie, please,” Balthazar said, clearly not done trying. “We’ve known each other for so long. Let’s at least be friends.”

Castiel sighed, staring down at his cooling drink. “Friends. Yes, I suppose that’s acceptable.”

For a moment there was an awkward silence. Castiel filled it by draining his mug. Claire was back behind the counter, so he raised the empty cup with a smile, and she nodded in his direction.

“So,” Balthazar finally said, as if he’d spent the whole time trying to work out what to say, “tell me about this place you’re in.”

“Bellbird Valley?”

“God, it even sounds like a hick town. Really, Cas—”

“Balthazar,” Castiel said sharply. “You have zero say in what I do, so stop whining about it.”

For a moment Balthazar seemed stunned to silence again, and Castiel wished he could see his expression. But he recovered, cleared his throat, and tried again.

“Indeed. So, in that case, tell me what you like about it.”

Castiel looked around the Roadhouse slowly, thinking, his phone pressed to his ear. With a slow smile, he took in the little cluster of locals, who all smiled as his eyes drifted past. The slightly dingy Formica tables, the sun beating down on the lumpy, ill-maintained sidewalk beyond the window, the florist over the street who was putting out fresh buckets of late-summer blooms.

Claire appeared at Castiel’s elbow, bringing him the two to-go coffees that he’d asked for, sealed firmly and with change already in her palm for the ten dollars Castiel one-handedly pulled from his pocket.

Balthazar was still quietly waiting, to his credit.

“It turns out,” Castiel said, picking up Dean’s coffee alongside his own to take back to the inn, “there’s a lot of things I like about it.”

***

It was a blisteringly hot afternoon. There was a thunderstorm on the way—Castiel could feel it in his bones, and he was pretty sure that Fatback could too, from the pigs utterly foul mood as he flopped on his side in the main hallway of the house, getting in the way as much as he could, and utterly refusing to move. The air felt uncomfortably hot and close, so Castiel had left off staining the new porch planks that Dean had put in a few mornings before, and had instead spent most of the day reorganizing the newly plumbed bathrooms. They’d all been connected to the graywater recycling system that Dean had painstakingly adapted to work for the inn, and it felt like a big step when they were finally done. The inn was coming together, Castiel thought proudly.

Done with the small half-bath on the first floor, Castiel climbed his way over Fatback in the hallway and made his way into the kitchen. From the window, he caught flashes of movement as Dean braved the humidity, cutting grass and sod to dig in new beds of beneficial insect-attracting flowers that Castiel had wanted at the front of the Bellbird.

 _He must be boiling out there,_ Castiel thought. He finished washing his hands and decided to grab a couple of beers. The afternoon was waning, and they both deserved a break.

It had been a weird day for Castiel, having spoken to Balthazar that morning, and he thought a beer on the porch would be just the thing to settle down the strange, thoughtful mood that the phone call had put him in.

“Oink!” Fatback grumbled as Castiel stepped over him again to get to the front door.

“Well, if you would just move,” Castiel threw back at him.

The pig let out a low, sleepy rumble.

“Well, stop complaining then.”

The flyscreen rattled familiarly as Castiel pushed past it with his hip, a beer in each hand. He didn’t bother with boots, stepping out onto the porch in his bare feet. The wood felt warm and soothing beneath his aching arches as he moved to the top of the steps, looking out over the slightly sloped front gardens that led down to the road.

Dean had stripped to the waist, Castiel discovered, his shirt crumpled and stuffed unceremoniously through his belt at the back of his jeans. He didn’t notice Castiel come outside immediately, so Castiel couldn’t help himself but to take a moment to leer his fill.

_God, he is one ridiculously attractive man._

Sweating and golden in the angled sun that beat down from the cloudless sky, Dean’s back muscles worked impressively as he used a shovel to lift cut pieces of sod from the grass into a waiting wheelbarrow several feet away. Castiel stared as he flexed—strong and taught around the shoulders and biceps, but just the slightest, delicious bit softer around the middle—and dug the shovel down into the ground, rolling his back before heading to collect the wheelbarrow.

 _Stop staring_ , Castiel told himself fruitlessly. _It’s creepy._

Dean looked up; waved. Castiel raised one of the beer bottles, and Dean’s face split into a grin. Abandoning his wheelbarrow of grass chunks and dirt, he made his way toward the inn.

Castiel didn’t stop staring as Dean approached, not until he was close enough that Castiel could make out the beads of sweat traveling down his neck. Then he blinked and dragged his eyes away to innocently regard Dean’s work.

“You got a lot done,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean said, shrugging. “It’s not too bad when you get a rhythm going, and I hate leaving things half-finished.”

Castiel held out one of the chilled beers toward him. “Thought you might want a bit of a break.”

Dean took it, smiling gratefully. “Thanks. Gonna sit with me?”

“Of course,” Castiel replied, lowering himself down to sit on the step above Dean. They both stretched out their legs, leaning back into the shade of the porch. “It’s starting to look good out here,” he added, slowly surveying the trimmed grass and neatly dug beds that were appearing.

“God, I hope so,” Dean said, groaning as he leaned back on his elbows. “There’s gotta be something to show for all this backbreaking work.”

Castiel gave a light chuckle, but he couldn’t help but look down at Dean thoughtfully. “Why do you do it? All this work—the building, the renovations, the garden. You’ll try your hand at anything that needs doing.”

Dean seemed to think about it for a moment, though whether he was thinking about his answer or whether or not to give a response at all wasn’t clear. He lifted his beer to his lower lip, letting it sit there for a moment as his eyes drifted over the garden, the metaphorical fruits of his labor. Eventually, he took a long draw of the fresh, foamy beer before turning to look at Castiel.

He smiled, but it was small, something shy about it—a look that Dean rarely ever had about him, it seemed. “I guess working on projects, helping people, fixing things… It makes me feel less broken.”

It was a far more honest answer than Castiel had expected.

When Dean looked away, Castiel shuffled his barefoot forward so that he could press it into Dean’s thigh, nudging him to look back up over his shoulder again. Castiel’s voice, when he spoke, came out softer but fiercer than he expected. “You’re not broken, Dean. Just different than you were. Sometimes things change and you just…don’t come out of them the same. But you’re not _broken._ ”

“Sounds like you know a little bit about that, too,” Dean observed, giving Castiel a small smile.

Castiel’s shrug was jerky. “I guess everyone does.”

Dean moved slightly to the side, pressing against the wooden railing of the porch steps. It took Castiel a moment to realize that Dean was clearing space, inviting him down to sit beside him. For a split second, he hesitated—but then realized he had no idea why, and slipped himself into the space next to Dean, shuffling down the couple of steps on his butt.

Suddenly, Dean was very close; large and hot and solid against Castiel’s side. He hadn’t thought this through.

“So, you’re telling me everything was peachy before you came here?” Dean asked after a second, continuing their conversation.

Castiel picked at his beer label as he admitted, “At one point, I thought it was.”

Dean’s eyes rested on Castiel, and he waited. Castiel couldn’t see them, focused on the swishing white bubbles in his brown bottle as he slowly spun it between his palms, but he could feel them, and he knew their green so well by then he knew exactly how they would look.

“I guess I was just living in denial because it was easier. I hated my job. I felt…trapped, and stifled, in every way that mattered. I’d been in the city for years, and the only people I knew were my one friend from college, a handful of colleagues, and my boyfriend. And, well, my boyfriend was…” Castiel trailed off, sighing.

“Not the best?” Dean prodded lightly.

“No.”

“He didn’t treat you right?” Dean sounded angry. It shouldn’t have, but it warmed Castiel in a strange, petty way, nonetheless.

“Not so much that. He was a little controlling, though I think he believed it was caring, and for a long time I didn’t see it. He just… He’s a really self-centered person. I genuinely don’t believe he has any concept of caring for other people, just himself. But he was never malicious.”

“Sounds like an asshole.”

“We’re trying to be friends. Theoretically.”

“I said what I said.”

That drew a small chuckle from Castiel unbidden, and he looked across to see Dean looking straight back at him. The look held for a moment, then Dean leaned over a fraction, knocking their shoulders together.

“Well, what about the city? San Francisco? You loved that, right? You miss it.”

“I do,” Castiel said firmly. “But…”

“But?” Dean asked when Castiel didn’t manage to complete the sentence.

“I loved the amenities, don’t get me wrong. And the donuts. But mostly, I think San Fran was just somewhere busy to be, to work, where I didn’t have to think about _me_ very much.”

Dean didn’t ask anything, but his eyebrow raised higher than Castiel had ever seen it.

“I moved there right after college with my best friend. I was running away, so I wouldn’t have to go home—my family are very religious, very strict. They had this whole life planned out for me and I just…didn’t want it.”

“You spent all this time escaping things you didn’t want,” Dean said slowly, lowering his beer bottle down to the step before he looked back at Castiel, “that you never got to work out what you did want.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “I guess. I was just doing what various different people expected, what I thought I should be doing. Until I came here.”

Dean gave Castiel a tiny grin. “Well, Kansas can be pretty special, not everyone knows that.”

“It can?”

His hand coming to his chest in mock offense, Dean spread his fingers as he said, “Are you trying to tell me Bellbird Valley hasn’t swept you off your feet, yet?”

Castiel laughed and took a big swig of his beer before responding. “I’m sorry, Dean. But I don’t think it has. There are a lot of things I’ve discovered I like about it though, recently. But I’m not sure it’s sealed the deal.”

For a moment Dean regarded Castiel with pursed lips, his eyes thoughtful. Then he picked up his beer bottle once more and used it to point at Castiel. “You know what—that makes sense. You’ve spent all this time focused on the farm, on working your ass off to make this inn so you can be successful. You haven’t given Kansas time to woo you!”

“Is that so?” Castiel asked, grinning despite itself.

Dean nodded firmly. “I’m sure of it.”

They grinned at each other, and Dean turned his body as best he could in the tight space of the steps, angling his shoulder blade against the rail so that he was facing Castiel a little better.

“Give me one day.”

Castiel tilted his head in question.

Dean raised his near-empty bottle, as if proposing a toast. “Give me one day. We’ll ignore the farm for the day—I’ll take you out in Baby, really show you around. Let you see everything we have to offer.”

“One day?” Castiel said skeptically, raising his beer bottle slowly.

“Just one,” Dean confirmed. “Sun up until sun down—one day and I’ll make you fall in love.”

“Deal,” Castiel agreed, clinking their bottles together sharply at their necks and trying to ignore the way his pulse was picking up.

“Tomorrow?” Dean badgered, grinning.

Shaking his head, Castiel huffed out a laugh. “You’re like a toddler. But yes, tomorrow, Dean. You can take me on a blind date with Bellbird Valley.”

Dean clenched his fist, pumping the air. “Hell yeah! Not a chance you can resist this.”

Castiel had a feeling he was right.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean wasn’t messing around; he’d instructed Castiel to be up and at ‘em by seven o’clock the next morning, dressed and ready for a day of delights. “Dressed and ready” Castiel had no problem with, but he’d never felt “up and at ‘em” a single day of his life.

So, when Dean pulled the Impala into the (now much smoother) driveway of Bellbird Valley Farm, Castiel was sitting on the porch steps, waiting blearily. The sun was up already, warming the farm and getting in Castiel’s eyes. He had no idea what Dean had planned for them, so he’d settled on wearing his worn, comfortable jeans, his boots, and a soft navy button-down shirt that he’d pushed up to his elbows.

(Maybe he’d changed three times. Maybe he’d thought about what to wear half the night. Dean didn’t need to know that part.)

Even though Castiel was right there waiting, Dean honked the horn obnoxiously as he stuck his elbow and head out of the driver’s side window. “Mornin’, handsome! Let’s go!”

Castiel slithered into the passenger side.

Dean looked over at him with a breathtaking, heart-throb grin that it was far too early in the fucking day for. “Excited, buddy?”

“Oh God, you’re a morning person.”

Dean threw his head back as he laughed, using one palm on the Impala’s steering wheel to spin her around. He was wearing a green and brown plaid flannel shirt thrown on over a khaki t-shirt and jeans. “You’re so very wrong. I sleep like a bear. But I’ve been up two hours already, doing a supply run for Bobby so I could get the day off today. So, you’re getting the better me.”

“Apologies that I can’t say the same.”

“Nah,” Dean said, his grin softening. “You’re all good. Your grumpy kitten impression is cute, I’ve seen it plenty.”

“My  _ what?! _ ”

“Uh-oh, you’re gonna bite! Better get you some coffee.”

“I’m glad you find my pre-caffeine temper amusing, Dean. But please tell me we really are getting coffee.”

Dean reached across, slapping Castiel’s shoulder comfortingly before he got them onto the main road into town. “Of course. I wouldn’t joke. I also wouldn’t go anywhere without a supply of coffee, so Claire’s putting together some road-trip supplies for us, my treat.”

“That’s—thank you, Dean,” Castiel said. Raking a hand back through his hair, Castiel tried unsuccessfully to settle his nerves. He knew the pretense that Dean was taking him out today under—to try and get him to see more of Kansas, to like it here. But even so, it felt kinda like a date. Or at least it did to him; and that’s what had his stomach in knots. Because what if it was  _ just _ him, and Dean had no interest at all beyond being his friend, his business partner? He couldn’t let himself get carried away. “I can pay for the coffee, though,” he suggested. “You’re driving.”

“Nope,” Dean said firmly, a warm, even smile plastered across his face as he concentrated on turning the corner from Valley Road into Main Street. “The first thing you need to experience about Kansas is Midwestern hospitality.”

Dean had already paid for their order, and he agreed to let Castiel run into the Roadhouse while he waited in the car outside. So, when he pulled up at the curb, Castiel hopped straight out and through the tinkling door, nodding a morning greeting to all the locals.

“Hey, Cas,” said Sam, from where he sat up near the counter. He was conversing with Kaia while he worked his way through a pale and healthy-looking plate of eggs and greens. “You’re here early.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “I’m not entirely pleased about it, but Dean insisted.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, turning to rest an arm on the back of his chair. “Dean? Dean hates mornings.”

Claire appeared behind the counter with an honest-to-God picnic basket. She placed it down on the counter with a wide grin. “Guess you’re here to pick this up, old man? Dean called yesterday.”

Castiel blinked. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a real-life picnic basket before. “What on Earth is that?”

“These are all the goodies Dean ordered for your date, and a couple of thermoses of coffee. I’ll make you a couple to go, too, for right now.”

“For your  _ date?” _ Sam interrupted incredulously, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise but a wide grin immediately splitting his face. “You’re going on a date? With Dean?”

“It’s not a date,” Castiel said quickly, feeling himself flushing.

“It’s  _ not _ a date?!” Claire exclaimed, looking almost insulted. “What the hell, Cas?”

“Okay,” Castiel said, slowly raising his hands. “Now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. I just came here for coffee.”

Sam and Claire both remained staring at him, even as Claire reached down to grab Castiel’s carton of coconut milk from the refrigerator.

“So, is it, or is it not, a date?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at Castiel a little as she reached for the coffee pot.

“It, uh—I…” Castiel’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and his shoulders slumped slightly. “I don’t know. I’m terrible at this. It’s been too long since I even had to think about that kind of thing.”

Sam and Claire exchanged an amused look, but it was Sam that turned back to Castiel as Claire finished off the coffees, his breakfast forgotten.

“Well, do you want it to be a date?”

Castiel’s flush probably answered that for him, damn it.

Kaia made a soft noise from next to Sam. “You two, leave him alone,” she said, flapping her hands. “Don’t make it awkward for him.”

“Too late,” Castiel muttered under his breath as he reached to lift the picnic basket down from the counter.

Claire ignored her fiancé entirely, putting the tops on the coffee cups as she said, “Okay. Where are you going today? Did you decide together?”

“No, he’s surprising me.”

“Who’s paying?” Sam asked next, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

“I tried, but he wouldn’t let me—”

“Uh-huh,” Claire said slowly. “I mean, honestly, I thought you guys had been on this a while. Didn’t you have a dinner date here weeks ago?”

“No!” Castiel snapped, flustered. “I only ate with him because you made me!”

“Okay, but who paid for dinner?” Claire fired back.

“Well, I mean—he did, but—I got sick, and…” Castiel wasn’t sure what color he was any more, but someone needed to turn on the air conditioning in this stupidly hot building.

Sam, Claire, and even Kaia all looked at each other and nodded firmly. “Date,” they all agreed.

Castiel’s eyes fluttered to Sam helplessly, but Sam just grinned and reached across to pat his arm.

“Dude, it’s fine. You’ve been staring at each other all summer. Honestly, we’ve waited years for Dean to look at someone the way he looks at you.” Sam’s smile softened and he pushed up from his chair and took the coffees from Claire. “Let me help you take these to the car. Then go and have fun…and maybe ask  _ him _ if it’s a date.”

“Good luck, Cas!” Kaia called as they departed, followed by Claire’s distant, “Keep it in your pants, gramps!”

Castiel was purple with embarrassment by the time he got back into the passenger seat. Dean didn’t even ask. He just passed his coffee over from Sam at the window, waved to his brother, and peeled away toward the highway.

***

Castiel slowly licked his lips, chasing the last crumb of sugar from the corner of his mouth. He let out a contented hum, and his eyes slowly fluttered open. Dean was grinning at him, clearly biting back a laugh.

“What?”

“Everything good there?” Dean asked, closing Baby’s trunk. “Kinda looked like you were in the midst of a religious experience.”

Castiel laughed as he moved around the Impala to the passenger side door. “Last bite of my donut. It’s religious to me.”

The gray, cavernous underground parking garage that they were in was, to coin the phrase Dean had used, fugly. But the mall above contained a truly excellent donut shop, that Dean claimed was well worth the drive. Castiel found himself inclined to agree.

“Be right back,” Dean called quickly over the roof. “It’s a little bit of a drive to the next place I’m showing you, so I’m gonna hit the head, first.”

Castiel nodded, dropping himself into the passenger seat to wait.

The drive to Wichita from Bellbird Valley had been long, but it had passed quickly as they sipped coffee, chatted idly about the inn renovations, and told stories. Dean had played old classic rock songs and sung along to them at full volume, and he’d sometimes even persuaded Castiel to join in. 

They’d spent the first part of the morning sightseeing, and then Dean smiled patiently while Castiel spent an hour exploring the farmers market. Dean had brought them to the mall to get lunch (Japanese steak for him, while he watched Castiel eat sushi with thinly veiled horror) and pick up some donuts. The tiny stand in the mall, Dean claimed, were some of the best.

Castiel couldn’t even argue.

Baby lurched gently in welcome as Dean swung into the driver’s seat with a large plastic bag in hand. He pushed it in Castiel’s direction.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, confused. The bag bore the logo of the large sports store they’d passed in the mall.

“So, I lied about the restroom,” Dean said with a shrug. “I wanted to get you a present, so sue me.”

“Dean, you didn’t have to—” Castiel cut off as he peered inside the bag, realizing that its bulky, elongated shape was caused by the thick, tightly rolled yoga mat inside.

Dean looked at Castiel for a moment. “You said a train ate yours,” he said quietly.

“It did,” Castiel said softly, feeling warm all the way through as he smiled down at the mat, even in the chill underground parking area. “This was really thoughtful. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” Dean said dismissively, shrugging and hitting reverse. “Doesn’t seem to me like you need to do any yoga, but you kinda spoke about it like you missed it, sometimes.”

“I do. My ex used to insist on it to help keep me in shape, but I found it very calming.”

The Impala didn’t pull out of the parking space, and Castiel looked across at Dean to see what the problem was, only to find Dean looking right back at him with ridges across his brow.

“Your ex sounds like a tool,” Dean said bluntly.

Castiel bit back a laugh. “Maybe.”

“As if you  _ need _ to do yoga to keep in shape,” Dean said, shaking his head as he turned his eyes back to the rear-view mirror, beginning to pull out. “That’s so ridiculous. I’m glad that you like it—that’s the reason to do it, right there. You look fantastic already.”

“I do?” Castiel blinked in surprise, looking across at Dean. He didn’t think he was in bad shape from working on the farm, for sure, but he certainly hadn’t realized that Dean had noticed.

Dean paused, half out of the parking space, to look back at Castiel. “Jesus, Cas—yes! I mean, look at you”—Dean’s hands flapped in Castiel’s direction, having given up on the steering wheel—“you look awesome. You’re freaking gorgeous, dude. And then you’re all muscley and…”

Castiel found himself grinning as Dean trailed off self-consciously.

A blush heating his cheeks, Dean put his hands back on the wheel. “You should have been appreciated how you are, that’s all.”

The cabin of the Impala felt a lot smaller all of a sudden, but Castiel didn’t mind. With the plastic bag and mat still in his lap, he looked down at them for a moment before he raised his gaze back to Dean. “Thank you for the gift,” he said honestly. “It was very thoughtful of you.”

They were suspended in time, closer on the bench seat than Castiel could remember them being.

“And thank you for saying such nice things,” he added quietly.

“It’s the truth,” Dean said. He opened his mouth say something else, still gazing back at Castiel…but the sharp blast of a car horn behind them had him scrabbling for the wheel again.

Castiel’s cheeks heated; serve them right for having a moment in a parking garage, he thought.

Once they’d gotten out of the city and onto the highway, Dean let Castiel know that they had an almost two-hour drive to take them to the next spot Dean had picked. It was a couple of hours after lunch, and Castiel found he was quite glad of the time to just relax in the Impala, singing along with Dean again as they headed south of the city.

“Is this the way back to Bellbird Valley?” Castiel asked, squinting at the road signs overhead.

“Same vague direction,” Dean confirmed, “though we’re carrying on past it, further east to Elk City State Park.”

“We’re going to the state park?” Castiel questioned, smiling. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, thankfully a little cooler than it had been, and some time out in nature seemed like a wonderful way to spend the rest of the day.

“Yeah,” Dean said, grinning at Castiel’s smiling reaction. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it, at first, but there are some really pretty walking trails there. Figured we’d take our little picnic from the Roadhouse and work up an appetite for dinner by hiking along Elk City Lake – it’s beautiful there. You up for that?”

“It sounds like a wonderful way to spend the afternoon,” Castiel confirmed.

Dean looked pleased and reached to push a fresh classic rock cassette—a homemade mixtape, of course—into the Impala’s player as he drove.

Castiel watched him, smiling quietly to himself, before looking back down at the yoga mat that he’d slid down into the footwell so that it rested between his knees. He found himself wanting to ask more than ever if this was a date, but he didn’t.

***

The light breeze coming in across the lake took the edge off the heat. Dean had parked the Impala and was leading Castiel along the shore of Elk City Lake, chattering idly as they went.

“This walk along here,” Dean said, gesturing along the edge of the calm blue water ahead of them and along the sandy curve of its shore, “is part of a longer path that leads into Table Mound Trail. It’s really pretty, but it’s six miles long so I figured we wouldn’t have time to do the whole thing today. I’m not much of a hiker, but the views are pretty great.”

Just looking around from where they were, Castiel had to agree. The huge lake—a reservoir actually, Dean had informed him—sparkled and shone in the late-summer sun. Around the edge of it, a shallow hill was beginning to lead upward, away in the direction that Dean had indicated for the longer trail. The grass was a vibrant, emerald green and thick woodland covered the area right up until the edge of the lake ahead of them, the trees just beginning to be tinted by fall. Greens and oranges and pinks and reds fanned out from the small vantage point they were climbing toward in a cozy patchwork, and it was stunningly beautiful.

They walked side by side as soon as the pathway widened out. The backs of their hands brushed, and every single time Castiel wanted to reach for Dean—but couldn’t quite bring himself to. They fell quiet, enjoying the walk, and the sound of crinkling leaves and tiny crunching rocks beneath their boots became slowly accented by lazy summer birdsong and the beginnings of early evening insects.

When they’d reached whatever specific but indiscernible point Dean had been heading for, Dean’s steps slowed and he meandered slowly off the path, up onto a grassy bank. There, he finally lowered the picnic basket that he’d carried from the car to the ground and turned to face Castiel with a hesitant smile.

“I’m sure all the places you’ve been to have their own beautiful spots. And Bellbird Valley is really pretty and quaint in its own way, but…I figured you should see some of this stuff,” Dean said, gesturing out across the river. “It’s easy to take for granted when you grew up here. But it’s pretty nice.”

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel answered, lowering himself down to the grass beside the basket. He rested his arms on his knees looking out across the water to the multicolored trees beyond as Dean flopped down next to him. “Really, Dean. I love it.”

Dean’s chest puffed out proudly. “Told ya,” he said. “Kansas isn’t so bad.”

Castiel held his breath as Dean reached right across him to root around in the basket, pulling out various ice packs before he dug his way down to the thick, meaty sandwiches that Kaia had made. Various cakes, a selection of cheese, even a couple of bottles of beer had somehow hidden themselves away in the picnic basket.

They ate quietly, humming in enjoyment at the sweet treats after their walk. They shared everything, and by the time Dean uncapped their beer bottles with the old ring he wore on his right hand, Castiel was comfortably full again.

“You were right,” Castiel allowed as he took his beer from Dean, “Kansas isn’t so bad. I never thought I’d like it here, but…”

Dean let Castiel gather his thoughts for a moment before prompting him, gently shoulder checking across the bare inches between them. “But?”

Castiel turned his head, taking a deep breath as he looked sideways to Dean, beer forgotten. “I’ve felt better since I came here than I have in a long time, I think.”

Dean was looking right back at him, the beautiful lake and the sun just beginning to sink behind the trees all but forgotten. “So, San Fran wasn’t so perfect?” he asked, the corner of his mouth curling.

“I never said it was perfect,” Castiel said, chuckling. “But being in Bellbird Valley… I’m enjoying it there.”

A slow smile lit up Dean’s unbelievably green eyes, and there was a lost moment before Castiel continued.

“I’m happy. With the town, with the inn. Spending my time working on something I can be proud of.” Castiel swallowed nervously. “Spending time with you.” 

Dean moved closer, and Castiel was convinced for a split second that they were going to kiss—but instead, Dean’s voice came out barely above a whisper, just an inch or two away. “Thanks for spending time with me today, Cas. Letting me show you more than just the farm.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Was today a date?” Castiel bit his lip after he said it, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything.

Dean let out an embarrassed-sounding little huff of air. One hand rose to rub at the back of his neck, and his eyes dropped down for a moment, hovering somewhere at Castiel’s collarbone. “I—I guess I wanted it to be. But I wasn’t sure what you wanted, or if…”

Castiel was a whirl of thoughts. He wanted this to be a date, more than anything. He was attracted to Dean, unbelievably so, but he also wanted  _ more _ . Spending time with Dean had somehow become the best part of his day, once he’d dug beneath the cocky, sarcastic exterior.

He could see himself  _ with _ Dean. He could see himself in love.

But…none of this was supposed to be permanent—Bellbird Valley, the inn. They were supposed to be the first step, the first piece in his big ideas. That was what he’d intended, after all, coming here.

Buy the inn, fix it up, sell it as a prototype. Do it all over again.

Castiel hadn’t planned to meet Dean.

And now…

Now, he didn’t need to think about the details, think about decisions he’d have to make  _ later.  _ Now, Dean was looking at him; longing, hopeful.

Castiel moved in until their foreheads touched. 

“I wanted it to be a date,” he whispered, confessing it aloud—to himself, as much as to Dean.

With a brilliant smile, Dean’s hand came to the side of Castiel’s face, cradling it for a second before he pressed their lips together.

Sat side-by-side on the grass above the lakeshore, the angle wasn’t perfect. Even so, Dean’s mouth was warm and tasted sweet from the pastries, and in the moment Castiel could barely hear a thing over his heartbeat in his ears. Dean abandoned his beer on the grass so that he could rake his fingers gently through Castiel’s hair, and Castiel followed suit so that he could wrap his arms around Dean’s shoulders and pull them subtly closer. Being pressed up against Dean’s flannel shirt, the breeze around them pushing his plaid fabric into the navy of Castiel’s own, certainly felt better than anything Castiel could remember from San Francisco.


	10. Chapter 10

The ride home was very different to the ride they’d taken out to Wichita that morning, and yet somehow very much the same. Dean drove along in the setting sun, the Impala rumbling contentedly in his hands as they ate up the miles back to Bellbird Valley. He played old classic rock songs, tapping out the bass on the edge of the leather-wrapped wheel, his voice throaty and rough but perfect.

After a mile or two Dean’s right hand snuck across the bench seat. Castiel smiled at him as he entwined their fingers; they lasted another few miles, and a whole rendition of Guns N’ Roses _Sweet Child of Mine._

Then the tape whirred onward, and Dean was singing along to The Jeff Healey Band as they sped along in the dark.

 _"So tonight, I'll ask the stars above. How did I ever win your love? What did I do, what did I say? To turn your angel eyes my way?"_ Dean crooned, a cheesy grin splitting his face as he looked across at Castiel.

The sentiment was lovely and romantic, but Castiel couldn’t help but laugh at Dean’s dramatic reenactment. “Cheesy,” he said, as Dean raised his arm, creating space for Castiel to lean into his side.

“Oh, and I suppose your hip-hop love songs are far superior?”

“I couldn’t possibly unleash the raw power of DMX in this car, Dean. You wouldn’t know what hit you.”

Dean snorted, but didn’t respond directly, instead choosing to snuggle Castiel into his side and continue with his loud, pointed singing. _“Don’t anyone wake me, if it’s just a dream…”_

Castiel laughed, leaning into Dean’s side. The ride back to Bellbird Valley Farm took over an hour, but it passed in no time at all. Before Castiel had even registered they’d left the wider, smoother tarmac of the main highways behind, the Impala was gently bumping her way up the driveway to the farm.

“Here you go, Cas,” Dean said, cutting the engine and turning to rest his elbow on the wheel. “Safely home just after sunset, as promised.”

Oh, Castiel was so not good at this part.

After hovering awkwardly in the seat for a long enough minute that Dean raised an eyebrow in concern, Castiel forcibly cleared his throat. “I had a great time today, Dean.”

“Me too,” Dean said easily, smiling at Castiel evenly. He made zero effort to move, or to lean in and kiss Castiel goodbye, or suggest that he came in. In fact, he was grinning as if—

“You asshole,” Castiel grumbled. “Stop enjoying how awkward I am and get in the house already.”

Dean’s laugh came out as a snort, and he reached across the bench seat with both arms to tug Castiel back toward him. He smiled, pressing a sweet kiss to Castiel’s cheek that did buzzy, flippy-floppy things to Castiel’s stomach. “I’d love to come in, Cas,” Dean said, his smile softer. “I don’t have to though. I don’t want to pressure you into anything that—”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel said very pointedly (and slightly huffily,) “I am thirty-four years old. If I want to invite you in to make out on the couch, then I can.”

“Actually, you can’t.”

Castiel blinked and flushed. “I, uh, if you don’t—”

“The couch is covered in plastic sheeting, I was planning on repainting the ceiling yesterday, but you wanted the front yard fixed.”

 _Still a bit of a jerk,_ Castiel thought fondly.

“That’s a shame,” Castiel said, finding his footing enough to tease a little as he opened the Impala door. “I guess you’ll have to go home alone, then. We can spend the night on memory foam mattresses at opposite ends of the valley.”

Castiel had only made it half-way across the porch when Dean’s hands caught his waist, spinning him around and into Dean’s arms. Dean’s mouth hovered so close that their lips caught slightly as he spoke.

“I wanna spend the night,” he said breathlessly.

“I’d never have guessed,” Castiel responded dryly.

“Ask me, Cas,” Dean said, his mouth traveling up the side of Castiel’s jaw, his way lit by the dim porch light overhead. “Ask me to stay,” he breathed against Castiel’s ear, and Castiel was done.

Reaching behind himself, he fumbled his way to the door lock and managed to jam his key into it, the new metal keys jingling against the crisply painted wood. Dean rescued him, reaching past him to open the door while Castiel’s mouth fought back against Dean’s, learning the taste of the underside of his jaw.

“Stay,” Castiel breathed out. He could feel Dean’s heartbeat racing beneath the stubble that led down to his neck, and it was an addictive, heady vibration.

Dean gave a low groan in answer, and the new door bounced off the hallway wall enthusiastically.

By the time they’d managed to lock the door, Dean had Castiel pressed up against the back of it. His thigh was between Castiel’s legs, and they were chest-to-chest as they made out breathlessly, all tongues and heavy, panting breaths.

It took a few minutes for Dean to gain enough composure to pull back a little. Castiel wasn’t certain if he was pleased that Dean made the effort, or just annoyed that he ‘d succeeded.

“I want you,” Dean said. He gulped, pulling in air from the inches he’d managed to put between them. “But this is sudden, and I don’t want you to think—”

“Shut up,” Castiel rasped, his voice throaty from arousal already. “I want this too.”

“Okay,” Dean agreed, backing toward the stairs as Castiel surged forward.

Heading upstairs only took them seconds, as Dean knew exactly where he was going and Castiel was in a hurry to get Dean’s clothes off before he woke up from whatever fantastic dream this turned out to be. When they reached Castiel’s bedroom, though, they finally fully separated and took a breath.

Dean looked down at the old, wrought iron bed frame, letting out a small chuckle. Yes, it was still Mabel’s old twin bed, but it had a new mattress—and anyway, it wasn’t like they were about to need miles of space between them. It was cozy. 

Standing on opposite sides of the bed, Castiel could feel Dean’s gaze crawling across his skin as he reached up and began unbuttoning the soft, navy shirt he’d eventually settled on wearing for the day.

“Can—can I?” Dean asked, gesturing vaguely. His tongue came out to moisten his bottom lip, and Castiel registered that Dean seemed nervous.

“Of course.” Castiel lowered himself down onto the bed, and knee-walked his way across to Dean on the other side. When he reached the edge, Castiel reached forward and tugged at the front of Dean’s shirt, pulling him in for another deep kiss before he said, “Let me know what you’re okay with, Dean. Have you done this before?”

Dean nodded, but it was rough and jerky, his eyes fixed on his hands as he came forward to attend to Castiel’s buttons. “Yeah, a few times. But I’ve never, uh…” Dean trailed off, shrugging. “Y’know.”

 _Oh,_ Castiel thought, vaguely amused. He smiled. “You’ve never bottomed before?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Since Lisa I’ve only ever really had one night stands here and there, and that just didn’t seem like a good idea for the first time.”

Castiel nodded, slipping his arms out of his shirt and beginning to push Dean’s from his shoulders. “That’s smart, honestly. It’s probably best to stick to doing that with someone you trust, at least the first time.”

Dean nodded, trailing his fingers slowly across Castiel’s revealed chest.

“For now,” Castiel continued, pulling Dean close again, pressing his words into his lips, “you don’t need to worry about it. I will, if that’s what you want to do.”

“You will?”

“Yes. I enjoy it, and—” Castiel leaned in, dragging his lips teasingly up Dean’s stubbled jaw to his ear. “—don’t tell me you haven’t wondered at least a little how well I can take that dildo you rescued, Dean.”

Dean gave out a snort of laughter, and it seemed to break his nerves. “You got me there. I’ve been thinking about that giant pink dick all summer.”

Whereas once Castiel would have blushed, now he only grinned. Wrapping his arms around Dean, he lay back on the bed, pulling Dean down with him. “Enough thinking,” he said. “And enough talking.”

Dean didn’t seem to have any objections, caging Castiel with his arms as he tumbled forward onto the bed. He held himself up on one elbow, slowly dragging his hand down Castiel’s bare side as he took him in. Dean’s hand was incredibly warm, but Castiel’s skin chased the touch with shivers, even so.

“Gorgeous,” Dean murmured, biting on his bottom lip as he watched his hand move. “You’re so fucking hot, Cas.”

Castiel parted his legs, tugging Dean down closer so that he could get his hands on the planes of Dean’s back, stroking his fingers across the muscles that had taunted him so often. “Watching you work outside, shirtless…I swear you did it just to torture me,” he breathed out next to Dean’s ear.

He felt Dean’s grin more than saw it, the catch of their stubble as Dean’s cheek shifted against the side of Castiel’s face giving him away.

“You liked watching me get all sweaty, huh?”

Castiel couldn’t help but groan a little, sliding his hands down to Dean’s belt. “I wanted to chase every droplet with my tongue.”

Dean raised his hips at the movement of Castiel’s hands, and it only took another minute for them both to discard their remaining clothes over the sides of the bed. Castiel was already hard, just the feeling of Dean’s body above him sending shocks of want through him the likes of which he couldn’t recall feeling for a very long time.

Licking at his lips, Castiel trailed his hand purposefully down Dean’s front. Their eyes were locked as he took Dean in hand, enjoying the silken firmness and weight of him in his palm. He pumped slowly, watching Dean’s mouth fall slightly open, his breath shaking, and his eyes blinking closed on a long moan as Castiel thumbed firmly across his slit.

Watching Dean shudder above him was addictive, but Castiel wanted more.

He reached over to the new nightstand, yanking open the top drawer to root around within for some lube and a condom. Dean’s lips latched to the side of his neck as he searched, slowing him significantly but not keeping him from his prize.

Dean took the bottle from Castiel as he rolled back into place on the memory foam. They kissed deeply as Dean warmed some of the lube in his palm, reaching out to glide his now-slick hand up Castiel’s cock. Feeling Dean’s hand on him for the first time made Castiel gasp, and for a moment he melted back into the pillows and enjoyed.

After a minute, he reached out to grab the tube of lubricant from where Dean had dropped it next to him, nodding to Dean that he should carry on; the feeling of Dean slowly, firmly pulling at him would only make this easier, shivers of pleasure making Castiel’s spine arch off the bed by the time his lubed up fingers slid down past Dean’s hands to circle his own entrance.

Dean watched, entranced, but kept up his rhythm, helping to relax Castiel through the initial sting as he sunk two wet fingers inside of himself.

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, clearly enchanted as he watched Castiel’s first and second knuckles disappear between his cheeks.

Castiel was used to the burn, more concerned with depositing the lube where he wanted it than any actual stretching—but seeing Dean react so deliciously made him want to show off.

“You can watch, if you want,” Cas rumbled out, low and tempting.

Dean bit his lip, needing no further encouragement to let go of Castiel’s dick and sit back on his heels. With Castiel’s legs spread invitingly on either side of him, Dean took a few minutes to massage his way down the inside of Castiel’s thighs, kneading roughly at them in a way that made Castiel bite his lip and groan.

Pleased, Dean grinned wickedly against Castiel’s skin near his knee before scooping his hands forward, grabbing at the globes of Castiel’s ass and pulling them apart. Castiel arched his back, and Dean took the invitation to shove one of the pillows under him, seeming to enjoy watching Castiel put on a little show.

Castiel was panting by then, pushing his fingers deep into himself and curling them over, dragging the pads of his first and second digits firmly over the spot he liked best.

“Holy shit,” Dean murmured, staring as his fingers dug into Castiel’s thighs.

Castiel had never considered himself to be much of an exhibitionist—quite the opposite—but the look on Dean’s face as he gazed down at Castiel made him feel brave, and bold, and deeply, desperately _desired._ It was a heady feeling, but he wanted to see Dean’s face make other expressions, too; he wanted to see him fall apart and gasp Castiel’s name as he came, he wanted to see how Dean looked when Castiel took his thick, curved cock all the way for the first time.

It took Dean a moment to roll on the condom; he was distracted, gaping at Castiel openly, much to his delight.

“What are you waiting for?” Castiel asked breathlessly, withdrawing his hands and pressing them to the insides of his thighs, displaying himself shamelessly as his cock leaked against his stomach. “I want that cock inside me, Dean.”

Dean’s only answer was to slide forward, leaning over Castiel and teasing his mouth open with his tongue while his hard cock slipped between Castiel’s slick cheeks.

“Ready for me, Cas?” Dean asked breathlessly, his vivid green eyes so wide and reflective that they looked to have golden flecks in the yellowy lamplight.

Castiel reached down and guided Dean’s cock exactly where he wanted it, wordlessly. He bucked his hips up, rocking and pushing, pressing up against Dean’s blunt tip until it popped its way past Castiel’s first loosened, eager ring of muscle. Dean let out an animalistic grunt, and then he was moving; one hand tight on Castiel’s shoulder, the other at his base as he pushed steadily forward, panting.

“Cas, fuck, God Cas—”

“More,” Castiel choked out deliriously. “Deeper, Dean—I can take it, I want it.”

“Yeah,” Dean answered in much the same airy, frenetic tone. “You can take it, can’t you? Fuck, Cas—I didn’t expect this, but it’s so damn hot.”

“Expect what?”

“Your fucking _mouth._ ”

Castiel was too overwhelmed by the feeling of Dean pushing to answer. He could only take deep gulps of rough air, his fingers sliding to cling onto Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer as he slid further into Castiel’s slicked, stretched ass. It burned and stung for a moment, even with the preparation; but Castiel breathed through it, feeling his muscles relax around Dean, welcoming him in.

Dean was still, waiting for some unspoken signal; Castiel nodded into Dean’s neck as his muscles settled, and they began to move together.

“Oh,” Castiel exclaimed breathlessly below Dean’s ear, “you fill me up so good, Dean…”

A low, overwhelmed grunt fell from Dean’s lips, devolving into long, loud moans with each thrust. _“Ahhh_ —oh, shit— _Uhhh_ —Cas, fuck, you feel so tight, so hot…”

Castiel rocked his hips up to meet Dean’s thrusts. Every push brought Dean’s hips flush against Castiel’s cheeks, every slow slide back out rubbed over Castiel’s prostate with exquisite precision, every ragged pant made Castiel feel more wanted _._ His cock was trapped between them, rubbing against his stomach with every thrust, leaving a leaking trail of precome across his toned abs.

They fucked slow and deep, muscles trembling as they built up together, pushing up on each other and sweating amongst the sheets as they gave up on using words at all.

Dean reached down into the hot, tight space between them, wrapping his hand around Castiel’s cock. His palm was slick with sweat and lube, and Castiel let out an open-mouthed whimper at the feeling of Dean’s thick fingers circling beneath his cock head, squeezing and pulling in time with his thrusts.

As the pressure low in Castiel’s abdomen increased, he could feel Dean’s thighs trembling against him, and the shiver seemed to travel up Dean’s spine until he shook above the bed. He let out helpless grunts as he fucked into Castiel with such force that the sheets bunched up under Castiel’s shoulder blades, and the bedframe thumped rhythmically against the wall.

Castiel bit down into his lower lip as he felt Dean’s cock throb within him, feeling it pulse and stutter as Dean did the very same, caged around him. It seemed impossible that Dean’s cock could twitch how it did with Castiel’s tight ass clamping around it, but nonetheless it did, swelling as Dean let out a low-pitched rumble.

“I—I’m—fuck, Cas—” Dean’s eyes sought Castiel’s, and Castiel got the pleasure of seeing Dean’s eyes widen as his pupils dilated and his jaw dropped in a throaty gasp. “—I’m coming, Cas, I can’t—”

Castiel didn’t want Dean to hold back in the slightest, he was far too well-fucked for conversation. So instead he relaxed into it, focusing on the peaking pressure below his belly button as he squeezed and tightened around Dean, tilting his hips to rub along Dean’s cock at just the right angle.

Dean buried his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck as Cas’s orgasm rolled through him, and he could feel Dean’s lips mumbling words he couldn’t make out against his overheated skin.

By the time Castiel had finished coating both of their stomachs with thick, hot come, Dean had given a final, over-sensitized shudder and slid out of Castiel’s ass, drawing a gasp from them both.

“Why the fuck,” Dean panted out as he flopped to the side, the mattress protesting loudly as his back hit it, “haven’t we been doing that all summer?”

His heart thumping in his chest, Castiel rolled onto his side and into Dean’s waiting arms as he said, “Summer isn’t over yet.”

Dean grinned in response, wrapping Castiel up close to him. “It sure isn’t,” he agreed, sounding content.

Once they’d relaxed and snuggled for a few minutes, Dean went down the hall for a turn in the nearest bathroom, and Castiel neatened up the bed, humming to himself.

He only realized he was humming one of Dean’s old classic rock songs when Dean came back in, joining in just to tease him.

When they both fell asleep, clean and warm and tangled into each other, Castiel’s heart still felt like it was beating a little too fast.

***

The soft, oinky snuffles of Fatback’s morning greeting were perfectly familiar to Castiel, by this late into the summer. Dean, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as accustomed to being woken by the blankets being chewed next to his head, at least if his shriek was anything to go by.

“Fatback! Jesus fucking Christ!”

Castiel opened one eye blearily. “Calm down,” he grumbled. “That’s just his way of saying good morning.”

“You’re defending him, now? The pig who just cheated you out of a morning blowjob?”

Castiel pouted. “I don’t see why I have to miss out on that.”

“Because now I’m way too far awake, and I need to piss and drink coffee. _Alone,_ Fatback!” Dean shoved the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll get us breakfast in bed, I guess.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Castiel said sleepily, burying his face back in the pillow. He never thought he’d be happy to be woken up by a half-wild porker, but hearing Dean’s throaty, morning rumble as he bantered back and forth with the pig was enough to brighten any morning.

“OINK!” Fatback seemed excited, grumbling delightedly at Dean as if he was utterly elated to see him here so early in the morning.

“Can’t believe I’m being cockblocked by a pig,” Dean muttered as he headed out of the bedroom door, barefoot, Fatback lumbering along behind him in hopes of breakfast scraps.

The bed was still cozy from Dean’s presence, and Castiel indulgently rolled into the warm spot he’d left, snuggling down into the pillow. Yesterday had been… Castiel’s heart fluttered in his chest at the recollection. It was corny, and cheesy, and Castiel should have cringed at how ridiculous it was, but even so…the whole day had been one of the sweetest in Castiel’s memory. Hanging out with Dean, driving with Dean, having Dean in his bed.

Castiel dozed, content and lazy.

He was woken again by the bedroom door creaking, and a much happier Dean arriving with coffee and egg sandwiches. He had it all balanced on the tray from the kitchen, and Castiel was briefly reminded of Dean taking care of him when he was sick right after he’d arrived in town. The uncomfortable reminder of time passing, and how much closer the inn was to complete than it had been back then, seemed incongruous in the cozy morning light amid the smell of fresh coffee.

“Here you go,” Dean said, sliding onto the bed atop the covers. He was just in his underwear, and Castiel took a moment to appreciate that before reaching for his coffee.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean gave Castiel a small smile, before leaning over to peck him on the cheek softly. It was gentle and sweet given everything their bodies had done the night before, and Castiel found himself flushing at the intimacy of it. They hadn’t exactly spoken about what they were hoping for out of this—Castiel certainly wasn’t the type to just be looking for one night of fun, and he didn’t think that at this point in his life, that was where Dean was either. But talking about it involved uncomfortable discussions about Castiel’s plans to go back to San Francisco when the inn was complete.

But then, what did he really have to go back for, other than to search for another opportunity to do this all again?

The egg sandwiches were perfect. Castiel was watching the top of his coffee swirl and steam, leaning into Dean’s warm side, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The fact that he had a nightstand, rather than a pile of apple crates, was something noteworthy by itself. He felt at home here, he was forced to admit.

Frowning at the screen, Castiel saw Balthazar’s name illuminated upon it. He canceled the call. Yes, they were trying to be friends—but he wasn’t going to interrupt his morning with Dean for Balthazar.

But the phone rang again.

And again.

“You need to get that?” Dean asked with a raised brow.

“Maybe I should,” Castiel said reluctantly, untangling himself slowly from where Dean’s arms had snaked around him in the quiet, breakfast calm.

Dean didn’t say anything, though he reached to take Castiel’s mug and begin clearing away the tray.

“Cassie, darling! I called you three times!”

“Yes, I’m aware, Balthazar,” Castiel said, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye as he slid off the bed. He appeared to be mouthing _‘Balthazar’_ under his breath, as if he thought the name was utterly ridiculous. Castiel ignored him, shuffling to the edge of the mattress as he added, “I was busy.”

“Well, I’m sure you aren’t too busy for this news, Cassie!” Balthazar crowed buoyantly.

In his peripheral, Castiel could make out Dean tugging on his pants from beside the bed. “What news?” Castiel asked skeptically. He’d hardly answered the phone and interrupted morning cuddles just for _gossip_ , if that was what—

“I found you a job, Cassie!”

Castiel froze. “What? What do you mean, you found me a job?”

Everything went quiet behind Castiel, where Dean had been unobtrusively rustling his way back into his clothes.

“Well, when Garrison closed down, my uncle Zach took a couple of months to regroup”—Castiel gave out a small snort at the idea that Zachariah’s ‘regrouping’ was anything other than the time it took him to avoid prison, but Balthazar continued talking excitedly—“and work out where to go from there. He’s just opened a new venture, and he’s looking for someone to head up the whole division, Cas! I told him what you’d been doing all summer, framed it as ‘ _on the ground experience’,_ of course, and do you know, he was actually really interested in your little idea!”

“My—my little idea?” Castiel said weakly, confused, his fingers grabbing ahold of the edge of the mattress.

“Your eco-inns, of course. He wants you to come back to San Fran, take charge of a whole team made to acquire old buildings that could be renovated like you did that one, and sold on to upscale, environmentally conscious clients.”

“Come back to San Francisco,” Castiel echoed, blinking. He was surprised that Balthazar even knew what the words ‘environmentally conscious’ meant—when had he learned what that meant? “Balth, I can’t… The inn is almost done, but I don’t even have a buyer yet, and—”

“I’ve got that sorted for you too, baby, don’t worry! I found you a buyer.”

“Wh—how?”

“One of your friend Crowley’s contacts! Once Uncle Zach mentioned the possibility, I did a little digging around and tracked him down. The new clients he’s working for would be willing to take it on, now it’s already renovated and not a risk to their portfolio anymore.”

“They want to buy Bellbird Valley Farm.” Castiel felt like a parrot, echoing Balthazar’s words, but he was having trouble processing at this hour of the morning.

“They sure do. I’m bringing them down to look at it in around two weeks, will you be done by then?”

“I—” Castiel turned slowly on the bed, looking across to where Dean stood on the other side. He was slowly buttoning up his shirt, his face entirely unreadable. “We are pretty close to finishing the renovations. I don’t know about two weeks, but we’re close. I’m not even sure if I want—”

“That’s good enough, Cassie—you push for two weeks, get that contractor of yours to stick his neck out a little. Uncle Zach wants to phone-interview you for the new position this week. Just as a formality—the position is already yours, we already agreed on it.”

“We?” Castiel’s stomach felt hollow.

Dean turned to look at Castiel. His forehead was wrinkling in an increasingly pissed-looking frown, and Castiel realized that he could hear every word of the call when Dean said, “Why don’t you tell _Balthazar_ that ‘your contractor’ will make sure everything is done in two weeks. Wouldn’t want to hold up your long-awaited exit.”

Balthazar’s babbling cut off instantly as Castiel hung up.

“Dean!” Castiel exclaimed, baffled at Dean’s sudden anger at _him._ Sure, Balthazar was being an ass, but—

“Well you didn’t exactly correct him, did you?” Dean snapped, grabbing his boots from beside the bed where they lay, haphazard evidence of their hasty removal the night before. 

“You knew I was going to sell the inn, Dean,” Castiel threw back, confused by Dean's wild mood change and suddenly angry too—at Dean, at Balthazar, at everyone who kept insisting he go there, do this, stay here, don’t do that. “Is that what you’re so mad about?”

Dean let out an angry huff of air, snatching his keys and phone from Castiel’s single nightstand. “You kept saying all summer ‘when you sold the inn’, ‘when you get back to your real life’…fuck, I’m such an idiot. You’ve probably been planning to go back to him all along. I’m just...what, the help? Your contractor, right?”

Castiel was scrambling off the edge of the mattress, furious that Dean could even _think_ that he would—

“l’ll report in for work at seven from now on,” Dean said emotionlessly. “Don’t bother waking up. I have keys.”

He slammed the bedroom door on his way out.

***

Bellbird Valley, Castiel discovered very quickly, did not contain a single pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. It was bad enough having to drive half an hour to get to a decent grocery store, but to not even be able to get a tub of misery balm? Maybe this stupid hick valley _wasn’t_ growing on him after all.

Due to the lack of comforting dairy, Castiel lay on one of the guest room beds—yes, he was being petty, and didn’t want to lay on his because it still smelled like sex and _Dean_ —and miserably worked his way through a bowl of popcorn, his phone on speaker before him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Cas, will you quit eating your feelings? I can barely hear you over the crunching,” Meg complained.

“No,” Castiel muttered argumentatively, before shoving another handful of popped kernels into his mouth, his voice muffled around them. “Popcorn loves me.”

It came out sounding like “phuphcorn luhs mhe,” but he didn’t care.

“I barely understood a word of that. Put down the bowl, Clarence.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he grumbled.

“Golly gosh, cussing now, are we? You must’ve really liked this one.”

“Yeah.”

“Good dick?”

“MEG!”

“That’s not an answer.”

Castiel sighed. “Fantastic dick, Meg.”

On the other end of the phone, Castiel heard the squeak of a wine bottle cork being pulled out, and a _chink_ as the neck touched the edge of Meg’s glass.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Meg said after a minute, much quieter. “He didn’t let you explain at all?”

“No.” Castiel sniffled pathetically into his sleeve. “He just left.”

“Then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Castiel knew that wasn’t quite the truth; that if he’d heard what Dean had heard, in that context, coupled with all the things Castiel _hadn’t_ clarified…Dean had been hurt, and he’d probably been justified in that.

Shoving the popcorn bowl listlessly aside, Castiel rolled onto his back as he answered quietly, “I think maybe it’s me that doesn’t deserve him. Maybe this is for the best.”

“Bullshit, Clarence. You’re worth ten of him.”

Smiling at her insistence, Castiel gave out a sad laugh. “You’re my best friend, it’s your job to say that.”

“No, my job is to shank him. I’m just humoring you, for now.”

Twenty minutes later, Castiel was sleepy, his popcorn bowl empty. Meg had eventually disconnected, after making Castiel promise to get some sleep and call her in the morning. He lay on his side with his face smushed into his pillow, his phone in hand.

His thumb hovered over Dean’s contact for a few minutes, on and off, before he gave up with a sigh and opened up his text messaging app instead. But after several attempts at an apology, an explanation, he hadn’t gotten anywhere.

Castiel knew he could be stubborn, but he really did think Dean shouldn’t have just _left_. They could have talked about it, couldn’t they? Dean had stormed out, all fury and ridiculously strong shoulders, and Castiel hadn’t seen him at the inn all day. That wasn’t unusual; he still worked for Bobby. But today it felt like a personal slight.

Rolling onto his side, Castiel pulled the starchy sheet up over his shoulder and pushed his phone away across the bed, message unsent.

He’d give Dean some time to calm down, he decided.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean was on his way out of the Roadhouse Café as Castiel was on his way in. Squeezing past him in the doorway was as physically close as they’d been for just over two weeks.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. He tried not to sound awkward. He failed entirely.

Dean froze, one foot out on the pavement. “Hey,” he said after an uncomfortable beat.

They stared at each other. Castiel wanted to say so many things. Almost every night since they’d had sex, Castiel had fallen asleep with his phone in his hand, hoping Dean would text him, knowing he could just as easily start a conversation, but finding himself unable to.

He’d made a mess of things, again, and now he didn’t know how to fix it. Every day that passed was making things worse.

Dean wouldn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. The back of his neck was flushed—he looked embarrassed, Castiel realized as he took him in.

After enough of a pause that Liz the mailwoman cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows, watching them from a table just inside the door, Dean gave a weak, unconvincing smile, and raised the plastic bag from Singer Hardware that he was holding in his non-coffee hand.

“I should get back to the inn. Got the final screws for the solar panels, so…” Dean tilted his head to the side.

“Oh,” said Castiel faintly. “Yes, I suppose. You’ve, uh, been working hard.”

Dean nodded, dropping his eyes away to the pavement. “Well, the faster we finish the better, right?”

Castiel bit his lip. He wasn’t as confident of the answer to that question as he had been when he first arrived.

“Yeah,” Dean said, huffing out a little laugh as he stepped away from the door. “That’s what I figured.”

Unable to stop himself from watching Dean as he walked away up the pavement with his head down, Castiel was still loitering awkwardly in the doorway when Sam approached, pushing on his shoulder suggestively.

“In or out, Cas. You’re letting the heat in.” Sam’s eyes followed Castiel’s up the pavement, and he saw Dean’s retreating back heading up toward the dark gleam of his Impala at the end of the street. “Oh,” he added quietly.

“Sorry,” Castiel responded quickly, feeling his cheeks heat. He stepped inside quickly, dodging the strange look from Liz the mailwoman and heading straight up to the counter.

He’d hoped he could get away with avoiding Sam and his inevitable questions, but no such luck. Sam stayed hot on Cas’s heels, loitering behind him ominously while he paid for his coffee, and then darting straight into the seat opposite when Castiel sat down.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel said pointedly.

“Which one of you fucked this up,” Sam said, diving straight in. “Because Dean has been sleeping on my couch for two weeks, not wanting to go home for some reason, driving us all mad, and I need to know the correct explanation to give Sheriff Jody when I kill him.”

Castiel groaned, giving up instantly and plopping his forehead into his hands, elbows on the rickety Formica table. “It was me,” he confessed quietly. “Or at least, it was my fault—but he wouldn’t even give me a chance to say anything or explain at all. If we could have just  _ talked  _ about it…”

“Yeah, that sounds like Dean.”

Kaia arrived with Castiel’s coffee, delivering it with a smile and a little pat to his shoulder. “I’m going to let you two talk in private,” she said softly, before giving Castiel a little wink. “But I did make a chocolate cake. I’ll pack up a few slices so you can wallow later.”

Castiel loved this town.

He realized it as Kaia was walking away, giving her a grateful smile as she left Sam and him be; the realization crawling over him slowly, warm and refreshing… He really did love Bellbird Valley.

Somehow it felt like too little, too late.

Sam was talking, and Castiel managed to give him his attention just in time to hear him say, “If you want to tell me what happened, I’ll listen.”

So, Castiel did. He skipped over exactly  _ how _ good the sex had been, he figured Sam didn’t need that visual. But he confessed to what happened when they woke up, what Balthazar’s call had been about, what Dean had overheard.

“Jesus, Cas.” Sam sighed. “No wonder Dean’s so upset.”

“He seemed more angry than he did upset, to me,” Castiel pointed out.

“Come on Cas, you know him better than that.”

And Sam was right—he did know Dean better than that. Dean had been a lot more hurt than he was angry; his fighting words had just been his defense mechanism. Castiel struggled not to let out an audible groan.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, Sam.”

“I believe you.”

Sam didn’t say anything else for a moment. Even in just the short months that they’d known each other, Castiel had come to realize that Sam was an accomplished listener, and he knew when to stay quiet and let the other person regroup. Castiel took his chance, leaning his forehead back into the palms of his hands. The Formica table was hard on his elbows, but it hardly mattered.

“We’re almost done with the Inn,” Castiel said after a few calm minutes, speaking to the swirling surface of his coffee as it rested before him. The softly sweet coconut milk scent filled his nostrils, but it didn’t seem quite as enjoyable as usual.

“That’s great,” Sam offered with a patient smile. “Right?”

Of course it was…right? Castiel frowned. It took him a moment to force the words out of his mouth, and when he did they came out barely above a whisper. “I think I’m making a huge mistake, Sam.”

Sam didn’t say anything, merely reached across to squeeze at Castiel’s forearm in friendly reassurance.

“I’m making a mistake,” Castiel said, still muted but with more confidence. “But it’s too late to change it.”

There still wasn’t much that Sam could say, of course, but his sad smile was understanding. Perhaps that was all Castiel deserved.

***

By the time Castiel reached the farm, the late summer sun was climbing high overhead and filtering through the trees that surrounded the front gardens, highlighting Dean’s simple but artfully-crafted landscaping in dapples and shafts of light. Castiel took a moment to admire the beds of herbs, bee-friendly flowers, and edible blooms that the two of them had carefully chosen over plant catalogs and beers one night in the beautifully renovated kitchen.

Baby rested under the carport at the side of the inn, relaxing out of the sun. Castiel pulled Bobby’s truck up next to her, cutting the engine and pocketing the keys without actually moving. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel, and considered his options. Clearly, Dean was avoiding him. His pride was injured, and Cas couldn’t really blame him for that. He didn’t seem to have any desire for them to talk and fix it. He probably thought Castiel was about to go running back to San Francisco, and to Balthazar—so who could blame him?

Well, the Balthazar part was wrong. That much Cas knew, down to his core. Even if he couldn’t fix things with Dean, he wasn’t going back there. He’d barely even missed Balthazar since he’d moved here, and since Dean had come to work at the Inn…Castiel’s desires had been pretty single-minded.

But San Francisco?  _ Was _ he going back?

Castiel stared out across the slope of the back yard, trying to work himself out.

The front door slamming jerked Castiel out of his reverie, and he finally dragged himself out of the truck cab. Dean was stood barefoot on the front porch, slowly drying his hands with a dishtowel as he squinted down the driveway toward the road. He’d obviously been drawn out of the Inn by something, something that Castiel had missed while he was wallowing at the side of the building.

Before Castiel could even attempt to greet Dean, a commotion down toward the leafy entrance to the main road caught his attention.

There was a taxicab, he noticed, parked right between the gate posts. The driver had obviously come a long way—the white triangle atop the hood of the car that said  _ Wichita Taxi Cab Company _ gave that away. The doors were slamming, there was some shouting, people were moving.

“You expecting somebody?” Dean asked from just over Castiel’s left shoulder.

Castiel frowned. “No, I—”

“Cassie, darling!” Balthazar’s distinctive accent cut across the front lawn so sharply Dean probably wouldn’t need to trim it for weeks.

“Ah,” Dean said, low and quiet. “I see.”

“What is he doing here?” Castiel asked, looking back at Dean and blinking, as if somehow he (of all people) would know why Castiel’s ex-boyfriend was approaching Bellbird Valley Inn.

Dean was just as baffled by Castiel’s question, it seemed. He shrugged and flicked the dishtowel he was still holding up over his shoulder. Folding his arms over his chest, he looked out across the driveway, carefully trimmed and maintained by Dean’s own hand, to where Balthazar was beginning to pick his way toward the house. Castiel watched the top of Balthazar’s deliberately tousled hair approach; he spent the whole time looking down at his feet so as to make sure he didn’t get any mud or grass stains on his pale tan leather loafers. Behind him, a surprisingly small piece of designer luggage trundled.

“Surprise!” Balthazar cried out obnoxiously as he reached the bottom of the steps.

“This  _ is _ a surprise, yes,” Castiel said.

“Well, I wanted to come and show you how supportive I was of your little venture, darling—and I had to get here fast, because the buyer’s agent will be here in the morning.”

Castiel blinked slowly. Balthazar was still talking, but his brain had gone entirely blank.

“In the morning?” Dean was asking, a frown pulling his freckles into new arrangements as Castiel turned to look at him.

“Yes, no reason to dilly-dally now, is there?” Balthazar paused long enough to look Dean up and down, his eyes lingering unsubtly on his bare feet. “And you are?”

“I’m Dean.” Dean’s arms stayed folded. Balthazar reached out briefly, as if to offer Dean his hand to shake, but after only a few inches of air he seemed to change his mind.

“Ahh, yes—you must be the contractor,” Balthazar simpered. “Apologies, I haven’t heard much about you.”

Well, that was a lie. Castiel and Balthazar had only spoken a few times over the summer, but he knew full-well he’d mentioned Dean  _ plenty. _

“Oh, well that’s a shame. Because I’ve heard a lot about you,” Dean said. His voice could have brought on winter, even in the late summer afternoon.

Balthazar smiled vaguely, carelessly, before he looked back to Castiel. “Well. That’s lovely. But as I said, the buyer is already packing up to fly out, and I’d quite like a tour of the place, you know.”

Not waiting for anyone to invite him in, Balthazar trundled his rumbly little suitcase up onto the porch, dragging its wheels through Dean’s carefully applied, carbon-neutrally produced stain, and pushed open the front door.

“I—we’re not prepared, I mean I haven’t tidied up or—” Castiel began, but Balthazar looked back and winked at him.

“That’s not a problem, sweetheart. I’ve seen your underwear all over the floor many, many times.” Balthazar stepped on through the door, calling back, “Come along, Dan.”

_ Dan. _

Oh God, this was a disaster. Dean’s face was slightly red at the edges, like pressure was building up underneath…Castiel wasn’t quite sure he wanted to see what would happen when it released. Elbowing past Castiel, Dean threw him a frustrated, dirty look—Castiel felt that was really uncalled for, but before he could yell at Dean about it, he heard Balthazar flouncing around the kitchen, unsupervised.

Priorities.

Diving through the open archway that Dean had constructed where the old kitchen door had once been, Castiel found Balthazar squinting around the room before he settled his eyes on the old cast-iron stove in the alcove at the back. Castiel and Dean had eventually managed to lovingly restore and update the old thing, and it was now a splendid, gleaming centerpiece against the red bricks.

“What on  _ Earth _ is that, Cassie? Didn’t those disappear with the confederacy? I thought you were all about things being modern, and green, and streamlined.” Balthazar had one blond eyebrow quirked as he gestured to the wood burner in confusion.

Dean let out a low huff from the other side of the island.

“I—yes, that’s true.” Castiel realized that he was twisting his fingers anxiously. Annoyed at himself, he folded his arms across his chest, wrapping his palms around his ribs as he carefully raised his eyes to find Dean again. “Those things are all important. But someone I care about showed me that there are other kinds of value, too.”

Dean looked back at him, his green eyes widening with surprise.

“Does it even work?” Balthazar protested, his long, elegant fingers flapping in the air.

“It didn’t,” Castiel allowed, searching Dean’s eyes and refusing to let them go, “but we worked on it and saved it…another thing that I learned this summer is that just because something is a bit broken, doesn’t mean you throw it away.”

Dean and Castiel were still staring weightily at each other as Balthazar let out a long sigh.

“Well, whatever you want, darling. Or whatever you think will sell, I suppose.”

Castiel bit his lip. “Balth, I don’t know if—”

“Oh!” Balthazar was already striding through the kitchen, straight past Dean, and on his way to see the rest of the Inn. “I have contracts with me too, Castiel. If you do your phone interview with uncle Zachariah tomorrow, you can sign them straight after and we can FedEx them straight to—Does this place even have a FedEx office?”

It took a moment for Castiel to register that Balthazar had actually asked a question. By then, his eyes had already moved on to Dean, who was staring at the effusive Brit and blinking a little too quickly.

“Uh, no,” Dean said eloquently.

“Well, that’s not a surprise,” Balthazar said, mostly to itself he seemed, as he was already out in the hallway, admiring the dark, wide-planked hardwood of the hallway floor. Once Castiel and Dean had followed him out to the bottom of the staircase like sheep, he turned to Dean and said, not unkindly, “It looks like you’ve done some good work on this place, Dan. Cassie told me that it was a complete dump when he came here. At least he knew to hire the best.”

“Dean.”

“Excuse me?” Balthazar looked back over his shoulder as he made his way up the stairs toward the guest rooms.

“It’s Dean.”

“Oh.” Balthazar sounded like he honestly couldn’t care less. “That’s nice.”

Castiel grit his teeth. “Look, Balthazar, I haven’t even seen this contract, so I think it’s a bit early to be talking about me signing one, and as for the buyer, we still have a few little things we’d like to do—”

“But wouldn’t it be even better not to have to do them, and still get your money? They’re going to take it off you at full price, baby!”

From the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Dean’s nose wrinkle at the pet name.

“Please don’t call me that, Balthazar. I always hated it.”

“Whatever you want, darling. I’ve learned my lessons.”

_ Clearly not,  _ Castiel thought helplessly, chasing the spritely asshole up to the third floor.

“You’d be a fool not to take that contract,” Balthazar was espousing in between making appreciative noises at the original, renovated sash windows. “It’s everything you could ever want, and more.”

“That’s a linen closet,” Dean interrupted helpfully as Balthazar almost walked through the door without looking.

Balthazar merely cast Dean a quick look from the side of his eye before choosing a different door, moving into one of the first guest bedrooms. “As I was saying, Uncle Zachariah knows he’d struggle to find someone with your talents and loyalty, Castiel. So, he’s willing to pay. He’s going to double your previous salary. There’s an apartment stipend in there, a car, company credit card—you name it. In a year or two, you’ll probably be up for a partner position, I’d bet my Gucci.”

Completely dumbfounded, Castiel came to a halt just inside the guest room door, Dean at his side. Castiel’s eyes drifted down to Balthazar’s tan designer loafers of their own accord. So did Dean’s, it seemed, as he was still looking at them as he cleared his throat.

“And the inn?” he asked quietly.

Balthazar paused with one hand on the door handle of the closet, looking back over his shoulder at Dean. For a moment he regarded him silently, something challenging to the square of his shoulders as he slowly turned to answer. “Based on what I guess Fergus Crowley let Cassie have this place for, at least four hundred more.”

“Four hundred?” Dean’s brow crinkled in question.

“Four hundred thousand dollars more than Castiel paid, for the clear title.”

“And how much of that is your money?” Dean asked. His voice was cold and dangerous. “How much are you paying just to get Castiel back to San Francisco, Balthazar, like he’s some kind of expensive pet?”

Castiel couldn’t decide whose jaw dropped further, his or Balthazar’s. “Dean!” he growled.

In return, Dean merely raised an eyebrow—an obvious challenge, waiting for Castiel to say if he thought Dean was wrong.

Castiel couldn’t.

Balthazar, on the other hand, seemed perfectly capable of speaking. He stepped up to Dean, barely controlled rage on his face, and replied equally as threateningly, “I really don’t think your presence is required for this conversation, Dan. Cassie and I have important business matters to discuss—why don’t you run along? The grass outside could use a quick trim before our buyer arrives tomorrow.”

Whether it was the repeated dismissal of his name or the use of the phrase ‘run along’, Castiel wasn’t quite sure, but something tipped Dean over the edge. His fist swung up from his side with the suddenness of a pistol firing from the hip, splitting the air and greeting Balthazar’s cut jaw with a resounding  _ SMACK, _ rather effectively pushing the Brit back out of Dean’s space.

“My name,” Dean barked roughly, “IS DEAN!”

To Castiel’s eternal thereafter surprise, Balthazar stepped right up and punched back—he puffed up like a peacock and jammed his fist into Dean’s nose, a total surprise to everyone by the way Dean grunted and Balthazar shook his hand. Dean staggered backward, and before Castiel could even think, there was a full-on fistfight occurring in front of the closet in guest room three.

“Hey!” Castiel protested, attempting to shove himself between the two of them. “Stop it, you two!”

Balthazar stepped back, rotating his jaw from Dean’s last punch and glaring past Castiel at him. Dean, though, didn’t seem quite ready to let it go—Castiel had to forcibly pin his arms to his sides and bear hug him into position.

“Dean! Enough!” Castiel pushed Dean toward the bedroom door. “Let’s go.”

Balthazar made a small smug noise behind him, and Castiel whirled around, pointing angrily.

“Don’t think I’m done with you, either!”

Dean shrugged off Castiel’s restraining arm with a huff of annoyance, but his eyes were on the floor in what might have been a little shame. He turned on his heel, shrugging his shoulders multiple times as he headed down the stairs, tension rolling off him in waves. At the bottom of the steps, Fatback sat on his haunches, looking up at Castiel and Dean as they descended. He looked very judgmental.

“You’d have done the same, believe me,” Dean grumbled as he passed the pig.

Fatback merely flicked an ear and rolled onto his side with a low rumble.

Castiel halted Dean in the hallway with a hand to his forearm. “Dean.”

Slowly, Dean turned to look at him. “I’m not sorry,” he said petulantly.

Maybe the eye roll Castiel let out was over-dramatic, but damn, it felt good. “I know you aren’t,” he said, shaking his head. Carefully, he reached for Dean’s jaw, squinting at the redness of his face. “Are you okay?”

Dean shrugged noncommittally, turning away.

“Dean, please.”

Letting his face tilt into Castiel’s hands for a moment, Dean closed his eyes. He let out a long breath. “I’m fine, Cas.”

Even so, Castiel carefully ran his fingers along Dean’s jaw, tenderly touching the red spots. “That was—you didn’t have to—” Jumbled and annoyed with himself, Castiel stopped.

“I know,” Dean said. “For the record, I didn’t hit him because I think you can’t look out for yourself. I hit him because he’s a jerk and he deserved it.”

Castiel couldn’t help a small smirk. “I know.”

“You can’t let him walk all over you like that, though.”

“I know,” Castiel whispered. He should really take his hands away from Dean’s face. He didn’t.

Slowly, Dean’s eyes dropped and he shook his head, gripping Castiel’s wrist gently and moving it away from his face, though he didn’t let it go. “I’m going to take off,” he said, so quiet Castiel struggled to hear over the ceiling fan. “He probably needs you to straighten his shirt or something. You should go. And…”

“And?” Castiel prompted after a moment, wrapping his loose arm around himself nervously.

“You should take his offer.”

“What?” Castiel could feel his face falling.

Dean couldn't even look at him. “The stuff he’s offering you, I—Bellbird, I mean, Bellbird can’t offer you that.”

Frowning, Castiel began to protest. “Dean, it’s not about—”

“Really, Cas.” Dean gave his wrist one last squeeze before dropping it, stepping back deliberately. “You should take it.”

Rubbing at his face, Dean headed out of the door, stopping only to shove his feet into his boots, and left Castiel alone at the bottom of the stairs. 

***

The next forty-eight hours passed in a daze. A slim and snooty woman named Toni arrived at the Bellbird Inn in a chauffeured car, bringing a corporate attorney in a sharp suit along with her. The attorney, Mr. Ketch, rubbed Castiel the wrong way every time he opened his mouth, but he supposed he didn’t really need to like him.

Before Castiel had really had time to process anything that was happening, he found himself sitting around the Inn’s carefully chosen dining table. It was late afternoon, and Balthazar was to his left, wearing a sharp tan suit and open-necked white shirt, and Toni and Mr. Ketch occupied the spaces to his right. In front of him was a thick stack of papers and several pens.

“Are you ready to begin, Mr. Shurley?” Mr. Ketch asked, a smarmy smile on his lips but not a single emotion registering in his eyes.

“Of course, we are,” Balthazar answered for him, pushing the paper stack toward Castiel.

Castiel bristled—there was no  _ ‘we’  _ about any of this with Balthazar. In fact, there was no  _ ‘we’ _ about anything at all with him. Staring down at the assorted contracts, Castiel reached out to grab one of the pens, slowly easing the cap off it.

He slid his eyes down the page, taking in the figures summarized on the first sheet. Those were some  _ big _ numbers. He could do a lot with those kinds of numbers.

After a few years working with Zachariah’s new firm, he’d be able to save enough, along with the Bellbird money, to fund several projects like this. To be independent, like he wanted. Wasn’t that worth it?’

Castiel’s pen tapped softly on the page.

Wasn’t it?

Looking up, Castiel’s gaze moved to the floor-to-ceiling glass door that Dean had installed in the dining area at the back of the inn, overlooking the gardens and countryside beyond. They’d planned out a terrace of vegetable beds that descended down the slope away from the house; over the next few years, they’d thrive in the Kansas weather. Behind that was a patio area with space for several tables. Castiel had thought about putting in a pond, beyond it, for natural pest control.

He’d never see it finished, now. He’d poured a lot of himself into this place.

_ No, _ he thought.  _ We did. Dean and I. _

Between them, they’d taken something broken and turned it into a place with a soul, again.

And perhaps, Castiel thought, they’d begun doing that for each other, too.

“Cassie?” Balthazar prompted, sounding embarrassed. He tapped at the paper. “Come on now, let’s not keep them waiting.”

Castiel’s hand began to shake, leaving telltale ink splats on the contract. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“What?” Balthazar did  _ not _ sound happy.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Balth—Toni, Mr. Ketch. I apologize that you’ve come all this way for nothing.” Castiel swallowed hard. “But I don’t think I’m selling.”

Toni and Mr. Ketch looked at each other, their mouths hanging open. Mr. Ketch made a noise that was frankly rude, before lifting his briefcase up from the floor and slamming it down on the table. He popped it open and shoved all the papers into it haphazardly while Toni flapped and grumbled, trying her best to persuade Castiel that he was being a fool.

He didn’t care, and he didn’t budge.

Once Toni threw her arms in the air and gave up, only seconds passed before both of the suits were bustling from the room, trailed by annoyed sounding huffs and threats that they wouldn’t call again.

Castiel let out a small sigh of relief.

“Cassie, darling,” Balthazar said, looking horrified. “What on Earth are you doing? I can’t just find another buyer—”

“I’m not selling, Balthazar.” Castiel turned in his seat, giving Balthazar his full attention, reaching for his hands. “I’m not coming back to San Francisco.”

The old farm paused around them, waiting for Balthazar to respond. When he did, he was downcast, his eyes on the table. “Not at all?”

“No.”

Slowly nodding, Balthazar looked back up. “Because of him?”

Castiel merely gave him a sad smile. No, it wasn’t solely because of Dean—but Dean was a big part of it. He was part of this place, part of Castiel’s life. But Castiel had also come to love the valley for what it was, built a home, a business, with his own hands. Maybe it wasn’t the scale he’d once envisioned—but he couldn’t picture turning his back on it now.

He didn’t want to get into all that with Balthazar though. So, he just squeezed his hands instead. “I’m sorry, Balthazar. I think, in your own way, you were trying to do something good, trying to fix things, fix us.”

Balthazar managed a small smile, at least. “I was. But I’m too late, and if I’m honest, I knew that the first moment I set eyes on you both.”

Castiel tilted his head, but it wasn’t really a surprise when Balthazar continued.

“You’re in love with him. With Dean. With this place, too, I think, as much as I can’t understand it.”

With a strange lightening of his chest, Castiel realized that Balthazar was right. “At least you didn’t call him Dan,” he said.

Balthazar managed a small smile at that. “I may not have been entirely polite to him. But all is fair in love and war.”

Castiel reached for his phone where it sat on the table, pushed off to the side when the paperwork had arrived. For a moment his fingers hovered over it, poised to unlock, almost overcome with the need to call Dean... But Dean probably didn’t want that. In the end, he simply pushed it into his pocket and stood up from the table.

“I suppose I’ll get my bag and be gone,” Balthazar said quietly.

Castiel nodded. “That sounds like the best idea. I’m not saying we can’t be friends, Balthazar, someday. But right now…”

Balthazar pinched his lips together and nodded. “Very well. I’ll head on back to the city then and leave you here to your, uh, quaint little dreams. If you change your mind, about any of it—”

“Go, Balthazar,” Castiel said, not bothering to suppress his eye roll. 

It didn’t take Balthazar long to gather his belongings, put them back in his designer suitcase, and be ready to trundle along the way he came. They had to wait a couple of hours for a taxi cab to be ready to collect him from Wichita, but they both agreed it made more sense than Castiel driving him all the way to Eisenhower National Airport in Bobby’s rattley old Ford truck.

Once he finally departed, the inn was quiet.

Castiel closed the door and slumped against the back of it, letting out a long sigh. He knew he’d made the right decision, but in the dim hallway, the evening light barely breaking through the first-floor windows, Castiel felt very alone.

Distantly, he realized that he was going to have to find some other way to pay Dean his share for the repairs, now. Originally, their deal had been thirty percent at sale—what was he going to do now? He didn’t have that much, his savings were dwindling as it was. 

The strange gap between his ribs that ached hollowly at the loss of Dean wasn’t helping anything, either. Castiel’s heart fluttered unpleasantly, churning up his stomach whenever he thought of him.

_ “Oink.” _ Fatback’s soft grunt was accompanied by a snout bumping into the side of Castiel’s knee.

Reaching down, Castiel scratched the pig behind its ears affectionately. “Just you and me now, Fatback,” he said.

_ “Oink!”  _

Castiel let out a sigh. “I don’t know if Dean is coming back. He wanted me to go.”

Fatback bumped Castiel’s knee again, huffing grumpily.

“Well, he did!” Castiel protested. “He wanted me to take the offer and head back to San Francisco. He’s clearly given up on—on anything we might have had.”

He was having a one-sided conversation with a pig, and he no longer even thought it was odd. This is what his life had come to.

With a much longer sigh and a still-aching chest, Castiel pushed himself off the front door. He checked that it was locked, then looked back down at Fatback. 

“I’m going to head to bed early,” Castiel told him. He felt wrung out and emotional, and he just wanted to relax into his memory foam and sleep it off. With a half-smile down at the pig, he gave it one more rub atop its head. “You coming?”

_ “Oink, _ ” Fatback rumbled, falling into step next to Castiel. He bumped his side and leaned into him every few steps, and Castiel smiled.

Strange to think that this wild, rude creature was now a comfort.

A short while later, in bed, curtains pulled open so the sunrise could wake him in the morning, Castiel rolled onto his side and fluffed his pillow. He held his phone in one hand, trying to work out what to say, and how he could fix the latest problem he’d created. 

**Castiel:** Dean, I just wanted to let you know that I turned down the offer for the inn. I know you said I should take it, but it wasn’t what I wanted.

**Castiel:** I realize that it causes some issues with our business agreement.

**Castiel:** I will do whatever needs doing to make sure that you end up fairly compensated for your efforts here, Dean. This inn is as much your work as mine.

**Castiel:** I’m so sorry about Balthazar. About everything that happened. I should have talked to you, and told you where my head was at.

**Castiel:** For what it’s worth, he’s gone now and he won’t be coming back. I don’t plan to return to San Francisco. My home is here now.

**Castiel:** When you want to talk about the inn and how we should handle the money I owe you for renovations, please get in touch with me.

Sighing, Castiel read over the text messages again and again. There was so much more that he wanted to say, but Dean had made his opinion on everything pretty clear.

Realizing that would have to do, Castiel shoved his phone onto his nightstand and rubbed his eyes. It had been two and a half weeks since Dean had fallen asleep here beside him, but somehow, to Castiel, the bed still smelled like his woodsy, soft scent.

He rolled his face into the pillow, breathing deep as he drifted off, Fatback’s rumbling snores at the foot of the bed.

***

The scent of dripping coffee slowly billowed through the inn kitchen, waking Castiel almost as much as the taste soon would. He’d slept really late; it was almost eleven, but who cared. Castiel was standing at the counter next to the deep butler sink, Dean’s lovingly restored tap curving up next to his arm as he leaned onto his palms, slumping forward. Giving up on gazing out of the window, Castiel dropped his head down between his arms.

Alright, perhaps the odd tear dropped, too. There was no one in the room to see them, not even the damn pig.

Fatback was occupied on the porch; Castiel could hear the front door creaking and clicking as the pig pressed his shoulder into it, forcing protesting noises from the door frame as he used the wood to give himself a good side scratch. 

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily through his nose. What was he going to do, now?

Open the inn, obviously. Market it, run it. That was really the only option, as he wasn’t selling it. There were still a few things he wanted to do though, a few projects to complete...and who knew if Dean would still want to finish them? Dean wasn’t a quitter, but given everything—

Castiel jumped out of his skin when a hand curled around his bicep and another arm slid around the base of his back, his tear-streaked face jerking upwards, wide-eyed.

Dean flinched guiltily, as if he hadn’t intended to surprise Castiel so badly. “Cas?” he asked quietly. “Why are you crying?”

He must have missed the sounds of Dean’s entrance, Castiel realized, what with all the noise Fatback was making on the porch during his morning scratching spree. Castiel hastily reached up, rubbing at his face.

“It’s nothing, I—what are you doing here?”

Dean blinked, then dropped his eyes to the counter, pulling back a little. “I work here, remember? Well, kind of.”

“I know, I just meant…” Castiel trailed off and let out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“No, I really—”

“I got your messages,” Dean interrupted. He stepped back, giving Castiel his space, and reached back behind himself to pull an envelope from his back pocket.

It was a brown, legal-sized mailer with no adornment on it at all, curled up into a newspaper-like roll where it had been shoved into Dean’s jeans. 

“I want to apologize,” Dean continued, though it seemed like the words were tough to form. “For the things that I said after Balthazar called that morning. I overreacted—it was stupid. I should have talked to you. I should have listened.”

With a nervous smile, Castiel nodded. It was nice to hear that Dean was sorry too, even if it was too late for them to fix. “Thank you, Dean. I should have talked to you, too.”

Dean flattened the large envelope he still held (rather excessively, Castiel thought, as if he was self-conscious) and offered it out to Castiel.

“What’s this?”

Dean reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Just read it.”

Anxiety flooding his body and making his veins feel too thin for his blood, Castiel clenched his fists before slowly releasing them, working up to taking it.

Waiting, Dean’s smile was small and nervous. It wasn’t an expression Castiel had seen on him a lot.

The envelope wasn’t very thick. It felt cool and crisp and new beneath the pads of Castiel’s fingers, despite the creases where Dean had rolled it up. It wasn’t sealed, so Castiel dipped his fingers within to pull out the slim wad of papers it held. He recognized the burgundy logo on the top of the heavy, cream paper— _ Samuel Winchester, Attorney at Law. _

Castiel had a fleeting, ridiculous surge of panic that Dean was going to try and sue him for the cost of the repairs for the Bellbird.

But he knew Dean better than that, and it didn’t fit with the soft edge to his nervous smile as he watched Castiel read.

It was a contract. A proposal for Dean and Castiel to run the inn together, fifty-fifty, in return for all of Dean’s labor and materials over the past months. It made sense, Castiel thought. It was a good deal. He’d provided an idea and a shell of a building, Dean had made it come alive.

Obviously, Castiel was going to take the deal. He didn’t have that many options. Something deep in his chest felt freshly hollow and aching at the prospect of working alongside Dean, but he knew it was the only reasonable choice. 

Blinking away tears he wasn’t even going to begin explaining to Dean, Castiel nodded stiffly. 

“This is a good deal, Dean. It’s fair. Of course I’ll sign this, and we’ll work out the day-to-day parts.”

“You should read the rest of it,” Dean said quietly.

Castiel tilted his head a little in question, but then returned his attention to the contract. He’d planned on going through the fine print when he was  _ sat down, _ but okay. 

He heard Dean let out a nervous puff of air as he turned to page two.

“Dean? Is everything okay?” Castiel asked. Was he really that anxious about having to work with Castiel? If the idea was so stressful then—

“Just read, Cas, please.”

Castiel did. By the time he read the first few lines of page two his eyes were wide, and his lips parted breathily. He flicked his gaze up to Dean; Dean was watching him intently, his bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth. Pushing against a ridiculous smile and sniffling back those stupid  _ tears _ that were threatening to show up again, Castiel began to read out loud, his shaky words filling the space between them hopefully.

_ “For the day to day running of Bellbird Valley Inn, both parties agree to abide by the following rules: _

_ Warm doughnuts are required weekly, with sugar to be licked shamelessly and without complaint. _

_ The sunroom is to be used for yoga only when it makes you smile.  _

_ Ex-boyfriends are allowed to visit, but only with some prior warning. (And some manners.) _

_ Current boyfriends get to replace your old lady bed with something bigger. _

_ The pig stays.” _

Letting out a strangled laugh that was weaker and breathier and far more tear-filled than Castiel was proud of, Castiel reached out to ground himself with a hand on the kitchen counter. He leaned his hip against it, staring down at the contract for a moment more before he dared look up at Dean.

“The pig stays?” he asked, fighting a grin as he turned, leaning back against the kitchen counter for support. 

“Of course he does. He was here before you,” Dean pointed out, laughing. His face turned serious after a moment, and he stepped around until he was in front of Castiel. “Bellbird is your dream home, and it turns out it’s mine, too.” 

Castiel gestured with the pile of papers in his other hand before lowering them down to the counter next to the sink. His whole body was buzzing, but he  _ had _ to be sure. Trying not to sound as anxious as he felt, he turned his eyes back to Dean.

“I really hope that this is a love letter and not just a business contract.”

Dean’s grin was crooked and pulled up one of his cheeks, exposing his white teeth. He stepped forward then, gently crowding Castiel against the counter, one arm either side of him. “A little from column A, a little from column B,” he confirmed softly. “I think we can make this work, you and me—the Inn, and us.”

“Together,” Castiel confirmed just as gently. “I like it.”

Dean raised his hands from the counter to cup Castiel’s face, and Castiel couldn’t help himself but wrap his fingers into the front of Dean’s worn plaid shirt, tugging him closer until he was between Castiel’s knees. He surged up to kiss him, and Dean met him with just as much enthusiasm, tasting of coffee and warmth.

“Sam suggested we just frame that contract or something, and get another one that doesn’t specify how many donuts we have to eat,” Dean murmured against Castiel’s lips after a moment, grinning.

Laughing, Castiel nodded emphatically before reeling Dean back in. Making out with his back against the edge of the kitchen countertop wasn’t the most comfortable thing, but after only a moment Dean fixed that for him; trailing his hands down Castiel’s sides to his thighs, Dean gripped and hoisted Castiel up onto the counter. Wrapping his legs around Dean automatically, Castiel had to admit that was  _ much _ better.

Peppering smiling kisses around Dean’s cheeks, Castiel took a moment to rub his hands over his face, smoothing away the dampness on his skin that was now purely from being  _ happy. _

“You’re really okay with this?” Dean asked, his fingers pushing back curls of uncombed morning hair that Castiel knew must be sticking out wildly behind his ears. “This is what you want?”

“No doubts,” Castiel said, nodding into Dean’s hand at the side of his face. “The inn is my home, now. Bellbird Valley is.  _ You _ are my home, Dean.”

Dean’s smile was dazzling, the green of his eyes reflecting the late summer day beyond the window above the sink. 

“Balthazar said that I fell in love with you, this summer,” Castiel said, feeling the flush that was pinking his own cheeks.

“Balthazar said, huh?” Dean asked, his grin showing all his teeth before he ducked forward, his nose touching Castiel’s.

“I say, too,” Castiel confessed with a tiny huff of amusement. 

“Good,” Dean said, pressing his lips to Castiel’s nose before he tilted his head, breathing against Castiel’s lips. “Me too.”

Their mouths had barely touched again when a loud, protesting  _ OINK! _ sounded from the doorway.

Foreheads rolling together as they chuckled, they both looked to the side to see a very affronted Fatback eyeing them from just outside in the hallway. He squealed, then took off up the hallway at full, regal, ambling speed. Something crashed in the distance.

“We can deal with him later,” Castiel said, laughing.

“Finally,” Dean said, turning his attention back to kissing Castiel, “we fully agree.”


	12. Epilogue

Warm air seemed to bump on every one of Castiel’s ribs as he dragged in a shaky breath, his gaze fixed firmly downward, his mind hanging blankly for a moment on the spot where he and Dean were joined. The way their bodies moved felt like beautiful, exquisite poetry and— 

“Oh, fuck, _holy fuck_ , fuck you feel so good, shit—” Dean panted out a crude cussing litany in the name of Castiel’s cock, his deep voice rising in pitch, punched up another note by Castiel every time their skin slapped together. “Don’t stop moving, Cas, fuck—don’t stop, please. Shit—”

They had different ways of expressing themselves, perhaps. But they were certainly on the same page.

Castiel couldn’t help but chuckle, though the sound quickly fell into a groan over his bitten bottom lip. Every movement was pure heat. Moving his hands slowly up the backs of Dean’s thighs, Castiel watched Dean’s skin whiten under the pressure of his fingers. It turned pink and then red, leaving prints behind as he shifted his grip upward in stages, until he was holding Dean behind his knees and pushing his thighs wide, pressing them into the outside of his ribcage.

Dean always complained that he was strong rather than limber, but Cas liked to think he was getting better with practice.

“Cas! Right there—”

“Yeah, you like being fucked like this?” Castiel was breathless but forced out a reply. For all his tongue-tied lack of communication outside of the bedroom, Dean was a very vocal lover—so Castiel always did his best to reciprocate, slipping into the dirty talk that Dean so loved very naturally by then. 

Lips parted in a soundless gasp, Dean nodded repeatedly, his chin touching his collarbone as he lay with his shoulder blades buried in the mattress.

They’d bought another new mattress. A whole bed, in fact, as Dean’s love letter-slash-contract had specified.

They made good use of it. 

“Right here?” Castiel asked, arousal causing his own voice to drag even lower, so deep it might soon meet with his rising orgasm in his pelvis. “This spot, right here?”

“Cas!” Dean affected a small whine, well past the point of enjoying being teased.

Castiel’s stomach muscles clenched and his thighs trembled. So close, so close… “Here,” he gasped out, reaching down and directing Dean’s hands to grip his own thighs, holding his legs back so that Castiel could lean in close to his face, “hold these.”

They shared open mouthed, panting kisses as the pressure in Castiel’s abdomen built with fervor and burst out, slicking Dean’s insides, making the last few thrusts that he managed even warmer and wetter than they already had been. 

Grunting beneath Castiel, Dean’s spare hand tugged at his cock with increasing enthusiasm, his hips bucking up into Castiel’s pelvis. Even as Castiel’s rapidly softening cock slipped out from Dean and he hastily replaced it with two fingers, rubbing quickly at Dean’s prostate with well-practiced pressure, Dean was already coming. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled, one hand flopping back to cover his eyes. “I know you said we had to be quick, but Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?”

“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy it?”

“No. I’m saying that was a bad idea, because now I know I can demand quickies in much less time than I thought.”

“You’re greedy,” Castiel said, smiling softly at Dean over his shoulder as he rolled and sat up. 

Dean’s only response was to deliver a playful swat across Castiel’s bare butt as he stood, drawing a loud protest from the old floorboards. 

Buzzing happily on endorphins and excitement, Castiel hummed quietly to himself as he dug clean underwear out of the leftmost top drawer of the dresser. A hand snaked around his waist, pulling him gently back against Dean for a moment. Dean left a soft, wet kiss on Castiel’s shoulder as he reached around him, pulling his own underwear out of the rightmost drawer. 

They hummed in unison as they dressed, even though it was one of Castiel’s “awful hip-hop things”.

Castiel might have been buzzing a little bit from love, too.

“Tie or no tie?” Dean asked from the other side of the bed. 

Turning, doing up his own shirt, Castiel smiled at the sight of his handsome boyfriend in a white dress shirt, holding a tie up close to his neck. He was still lightly flushed, his hair mussed, the right kind of afterglow noticeable to anyone who might know to look. In the morning sunshine that lit their bedroom with bright, spring light, he looked glorious.

“No tie,” Castiel said, stepping up to Dean’s front so that he could open the top two buttons of his shirt. “I know you hate them anyway.”

Stood in front of the window, they smiled indulgently at each other for a few moments before hurrying to find their socks and shoes. 

It had been nearly six months since Dean had proposed that they run the inn together— _together_ , together. It hadn’t been a fairy tale; but no matter how many times they disagreed, Dean communicated, and Castiel stayed. And it was just that simple. Day-to-day, Castiel felt almost comically happy. 

He hadn’t known that relationships could be like this. He hadn’t known that life could. 

But, he supposed, anything was possible when you were unquestionably, ridiculously in love. 

“Alright!” Dean announced perkily, turning away from the mirror where he’d been fiddling with his hair. He shot dorky finger-guns in Castiel’s direction, grinning as he asked, “Ready for this?”

Castiel let out a nervous breath through his pursed lips. “As ready as I’m getting, I suppose. Let’s go face everyone, and get this thing started.”

“This _‘thing’_ ,” Dean said pointedly, reaching to tangle his fingers in Castiel’s own and squeeze them as they opened the bedroom door, “should really have you a lot more excited and a lot less nervous. Opening the inn was your dream, right?”

Castiel smiled nervously, admitting, “That’s the problem.”

“It’ll be fine,” Dean said, pulling Castiel down the stairs behind him. He appeared to be all confidence, but Castiel knew him well enough by now to know that Dean was almost as nervous as he was.

“Of course,” Castiel said. “Just fine. In front of all our friends, and family, and—”

“Cas,” Dean cut him off with another sharp squeeze to his fingers. “Breathe. It’s fine. We’ll pose and take a few pictures. This isn’t a big deal. The first guests don’t even get here until tomorrow.”

That was true, Castiel consoled himself. Or at least, mostly true. He supposed all of the visitors that currently filled the Bellbird’s rooms didn’t really count. Castiel turned to Dean as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and pulled him close. He’d barely taken in a breath to begin to tell Dean how grateful he was for his support and their whole relationship, business or otherwise, when there was a piercing _shriek_ from the kitchen, followed by a rattling _clang_ and a loud, obnoxious _“OINK!”_

A streak of fur ran full pelt across the hall into the living room—Castiel’s cat, Miggles, who’d recently arrived from San Francisco and, as Castiel liked to think of it, was in a _‘transition phase’_ with the pig. 

“Clarence! Your walking ham is a MENACE!” 

Castiel let out a long groan, his head lolling forward onto Dean’s shoulder as Fatback began squealing loudly, getting into a full argument with Meg before he blundered out of the door and onto the porch to get in someone else's way.

“Deep breaths,” Dean reminded Castiel, before giving him a pat on the butt and shoving him toward the kitchen. 

After separating Meg and Fatback once more like they were squabbling toddlers, Castiel finally got some coffee brewing. Throwing back a quick, steaming mug of it, he began to run down his checklist of last-minute items while Dean and his delightful sister-in-law Eileen went to start placing all the rented chairs on the front lawn.

Luckily, with all the help he had from the local community of Bellbird Valley, Castiel’s list was short. He and Dean had everything mapped out already, they had done for weeks, and he had Meg here to stand around and look threatening if things went off the rails. 

Bellbird Valley Inn was finally opening to the public. Just three final things to check off.

Claire and Kaia catering—check. Castiel could see Claire’s hatchback already parked at the end of the driveway, and Kaia was carrying a large folding table up into the gardens, assisted by Sam. 

Advertising boards and ribbon in place for the cutting and photographs—check. Rufus gave Castiel a brief nod through the kitchen window, carrying a large placard listing all the green technology that Dean had spent months installing and upgrading. Behind him came Bobby, looking very pretty with his arms piled full of thick ribbon to string between the two trees that grew either side of the porch. 

Marketing, such as it was—Hmm. Where was Balthazar? Castiel sipped the dregs of his coffee and moved out onto the porch, searching for him. 

A couple of months after the not-sale of the Bellbird, Balthazar had sent a few contacts Castiel’s way, still being in touch with a lot of his uncle’s colleagues. Once he’d discussed it with Dean, they’d decided to work with Balthazar on quietly contacting a few of Zachariah and Naomi’s old clients. Although Dean and Castiel planned to mostly market online, several of the clients had been very interested in Bellbird Valley Inn, so Balthazar had brought them down to attend the opening. 

After peering around at the organized chaos for a minute, Castiel spotted Balthazar dashing through the front gardens in a pale grey suit and pink shirt, his face red. A few feet ahead of him frolicked Fatback with what appeared to be a gray Italian leather loafer in his mouth.

Castiel sipped his coffee and considered shouting for Fatback to drop it, before shrugging and emptying his cup. He headed back into the kitchen to start fetching the flower arrangements out of the refrigerator.

It wasn’t like Fatback was going to listen to him anyway.

Dean reappeared after only a few minutes, his hand warm on the base of Castiel’s back as he juggled the local flower displays that the florist down in the valley had put together. They were all living, potted plants, able to be transferred to the inn’s gardens once the celebration was over. Dean grabbed a couple from his arms.

“Almost ready outside,” he said. “Sam’s got the sound system set up, chairs are out, food is going onto the tables, and Bobby and Rufus are getting the ribbon up.”

Castiel smiled, starting to relax. “Good, it’s almost ten o’clock, so that’s perfect. We’ll cut the ribbon and people can mingle for half an hour or so before we start Balthazar’s group on their tour.”

They had just finished placing the flowers when Balthazar himself approached them.

“Cassie, that creature”—Balthazar sharply jerked his thumb back to where Fatback was trying to intimidate Claire’s hatchback—”is a waste of bacon.”

“Possibly,” Dean said far too sweetly, “but you’re a waste of oxygen.”

“Not today, you two,” Castiel said tiredly. He did not have the patience for the neverending childish squabbling that Dean and Balthazar seemed to be prone to.

Balthazar preened. Dean looked disappointed.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I mean it.”

He supposed it was too much to ever expect the two of them to get along, being so wildly different, but God help him if they stressed him out today—

“Ready to start, boy?” Bobby rumbled from the porch, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of suits that were slowly amassing. Castiel wondered if that puffy vest actually came off. 

Castiel smoothed his shirt and exchanged a nervous look with Dean. They both nodded and headed up to the top of the porch steps, where Rufus had just finished hooking up a microphone.

Everything was ready.

With a final grin and wink at Castiel, Dean stepped forward and tapped the microphone experimentally.

“If I could have everyone’s attention, please!” Dean called out cheerfully, clapping his hands.

The crowd out in front of the building immediately settled, finding seats and putting down drinks, turning toward the porch expectantly. Castiel was pretty sure that the whole valley was in attendance, from the intimidating-but-charming Ellen, who owned the Roadhouse Cafe, to Liz the mailwoman. Even Ash, the weird guy with a mullet who lived in an RV off Main Street was in attendance. He was wearing a neon bow tie. 

“It’s my honor,” Dean continued, “to introduce you to my business partner, Castiel Shurley. Bellbird Valley Inn would not exist at all if it weren’t for him. Up until last spring, this was a derelict farm that no one had been brave enough to love for far too long.”

Standing next to Dean, Castiel got the full force of Dean’s twinkling green eyes as he turned.

“Luckily, Cas came along. He saw potential where no one else did, and was stubborn enough to dig through its rough exterior and see what was within. He restored its soul, and for that, I am so very thankful.”

Suddenly finding himself a little warm and flushed, Castiel wasn’t _quite_ certain if Dean was talking about the inn anymore. 

“Hear, hear!” To Castiel’s surprise, it was Rufus that called out, starting a round of applause that took a moment to die down. 

“Cas, why don’t you come forward and tell us a little about Bellbird Valley Inn,” Dean invited, getting back on track.

As he stepped up to the microphone, Castiel linked his fingers between Dean’s and held tight. He didn’t let him go, even as he began his carefully rehearsed talk on the inn, briefly covering everything from the solar panels to the on-site vegetable gardens and newly-sunk well.

Before he knew it, he was stepping forward with Dean to cut the ribbon, using a comically large pair of scissors that Sam had found online.

The cheer that went up as the ribbon fell only increased when Fatback dove forward, grabbing the end of the silky material with surprising agility, and trotted off down the aisle between the seats with it, like an incredibly pleased flower girl at a wedding.

Glasses clinked, music began to play over the sound system, and Dean’s arms slipped around Castiel’s waist from behind him. 

“You did it,” he murmured into Castiel’s ear.

“We did it,” Castiel corrected, taking the two glasses of champagne that Claire pressed on them as she glided past with a tray. 

“Sure did,” Dean agreed, raising his glass to Castiel’s. “To Bellbird Valley Inn, and to us.”

“To us,” Castiel echoed softly before turning to press his lips to Dean’s cheek.

Around them, the valley mingled. The spring sunshine brought promises of a hot summer to come, and music drifted cheerfully out from the speakers at the end of the porch. 

_🎵_ _“Cause I won't let nobody bring me down_

_Nobody steal my smile_

_Nobody turn me round_

_And I won't let no one get in my way_

_Their words won’t make me break_

_Cause baby I'm here to stay…”_ _🎵_

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> If you are so inclined, you can find me [on Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> What is coming up next from me, fic wise? Updates to [Hold On, Holy Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287952/chapters/53228665) and [Oxygen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579460/chapters/44044279), a few timestamps for [Russian to the Altar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238709/chapters/47965651) and [The Bat Dean 'Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1471331), as well as a whole new 'friends with benefits' WIP, "Extreme Hanging Out"! 
> 
> If you think any of those might be your kinda thing, please do [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) so that you don't miss them!
> 
> \- Mal <3


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